And Breathe

Just breathe.

You wake up around three thirty, unable to sleep. It is the morning of June 22, 2025. Hours before, Trump (You never call him President, because he doesn't deserve the respect the title represents) announced he bombed Iran. Without Congress saying yes. Which is unconstitutional. But why should you be surprised? This man is an Overgrown Toddler who doesn't care about rules, logistics. All he cares about is getting his own way.

You're a Gen Xer, so nuclear war was one of your worries back in the day, right up there with will you always have acne, will Beth and Lujack ever get married on Guiding Light, and why is it bullies always win. The latter has not changed in forty years, which really depresses you.

You've been in a navy blue funk for a while now, ever since one morning you knocked on your roommate's door, trying to get him awake. Only he wasn't awake. Three hours later, you watch the coroner take him away in a body bag. A week later, your landlord asks you when you will leave. A week after that, you get a delightful note asking you pay the March rent of $1800 or leave. You move two days later.

In the meantime, life goes on. You go on with it. But when you hear about the bombing, you realize how little you can control. You wonder if Iran will drop a nuclear bomb in the city near you. Would life be like The Day After, the movie your mother wouldn't let you watch because she didn't want you to have nightmares? On your phone, you look up bomb shelters in you zip code. There are none. You look at your closet, thinking can you and your cat live there for two days if something happened? In The Day After, there was one family that lived in a basement. You don't have a basement. Does anyone have a basement they could let us stay?

You tell yourself to stop this negative talk. Your governor for the most part is good at his job, except when he's saying odd stuff on his podcast. Could they bomb Detroit? Your aunt and cousins live an hour away from there. Or New York again? One of your best friends lives in Brooklyn. Should you tell her to see if her apartment building has a basement? Maybe you should buy a gas mask. It can join the masks you wore during the pandemic.

You put on YouTube and Anna Nalick's "Breathe" comes on. 2 AM and she calls me 'cause I'm still awake"Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?" In bed, you wonder about the fact you don't want to be bombed, you don't want to worry about radiation. You don't want to die. You believe in Heaven. You believe you will see your parents, your grandparents, your high school writing mentor, and others again. But not now. You've got to get over this funk. You have to try and get your book about Suzanne Bombardier published. It hits you that this weekend is the 45th anniversary of her death.

You want to live. You want the bad luck that has plagued you the past couple of years to turn around. It has, somewhat. You had a place to go to when you were asked to leave. You have a sweet cat. Yet you cannot, in the words of poet Susan Browne, out of the Land of Sad. Oh God, you want to. You really do.

Anna Nalick is singing And breathe, just breathe.

This is your marching orders. Yes, the world might collapse. But at that moment, you are alive. Your cat is alive, sleeping near your foot. You listen to the song. Cradle your head in your hands and just breathe. You take deep breaths. You hope a year from now, seven years when you are sixty, this will be a memory of fears that don't come true.

You close your eyes. Breathe. Just breathe.