Reprinted from www.counterpunch.org
I fold the dinner napkins and place them on the dining table. This life, my life, is just as it was yesterday and the day before.
We talk, my little group, family and friends. "Tomorrow, here," I say. And when they arrive, we hug. I pop a bottle, pour bubbly. We sit on the balcony, talk our talk, reminisce, laugh.
Earlier, today, the U.S. dropped the "mother of all bombs" on Afghanistan. The. Mother. Of. All. Bombs.
I think of Afghanistan and Afghans as I remove plates from the cabinet just as I thought of Afghanistan and Afghans as I folded the napkins.
What's left? What's left in the area where a bomb that size explodes? I don't know sh*t. I can't imagine. We can't imagine.
My motions are perfunctory, the folding of napkins, preparing the cheese board, crushing garlic, grating this and that, whatever. I've done this, these same activities so many times and for as long as I can remember. This life, just as it was yesterday and the day before.
My guy asks, "What is that?"
"Sweet potatoes, roasted in coconut oil," I say.
What does a 22,000-lb bomb explosion smell like?
What does the detonation of a 22,000-pound bomb sound like?
How can this happen?
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