In the aftermath of catastrophe, anyone can feel a certain kind of shame for wanting the ordinary: soap and water, a bed in which someone is breathing and snoring. Sugar and flour for a birthday cake. Pizza and beer. A trip to the drugstore, knowing an amber vial of pills is waiting with your name printed on the label. You've also felt sad and as if incapable of wonder, piteous and needy in your everyday suffering; forgetful of those small, uncountable deliverances that came just in the nick of time when you wished for a door, any door, opening with the clarity of early morning— But what does one do with so much grief? O countless hands, pressed against train windows. Overnight, fields turn into plots for burying. Smoke billows from wreckage of buildings.
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