āStates Awayā
I live states awayā far enough that the gas doesnāt reach my lungs, close enough that the names still sting my eyes.
I learn the city by headlines: Minneapolis winter, sirens, a street that becomes a sentence no one can finish.
They say tear gas. Like itās neat. Like it doesnāt crawl. Like it doesnāt choose children first.
I watch a clip on my phoneā someone running, someone coughing, someone shouting move to a kid who doesnāt know which way is out yet.
And then the names arrive where my math homework is supposed to be:
Renee Good. A name that lands heavy, like a door closing too hard.
Alex Pretti. A name that feels unfinished, like a sentence cut mid-breath.
I donāt pretend I know everything. I know what itās like to be told to calm down while something burns. I know what itās like to be young and furious and polite about it anyway.
They say distance makes things smaller. Thatās a lie. Distance just makes the anger quiet enough to pass for restraint.
I imagine the kidsā eyes red, hands shaking, learning early that the state has a smell, and itās chemical.
I imagine the parents trying to keep voices steady, trying not to teach fear by accident.
From here, I canāt stop it. I canāt hold anyone. I can only refuse the cold.
So I say the names out loud in my room, states away, like warmth is something you can send even when everything else is blocked.
Renee Good. Alex Pretti.
I donāt know them. But I know this: what hurts children hurts the future, and what we call order too often looks like winter from the outside
