I never was a helicopter parent. I wasn't a paranoid mother. I was always aware of the dangers but never frightened. Until the year we were locked inside. When I filled my time by scrolling the news sites on a neverending loop. Reading stories about a cop shooting a baby in the head as he chased a robber. It sounded like the plot of a bad action movie.
Or the drunk driver who didn’t (couldn't? wouldn't?) stop as he pulled up to the gas station store, crushing a child against the bricks as the car tried to power through.The tornado sirens are sounding and I rush to gather the small fragment of my soul from his bed. Tornadoes have never been a problem here before, but now, I don't trust anything. What if the upper bunk collapsed. What if the window broke. How I would scream when I entered the room and saw the shattered glass.
I huddle over his body in the bathtub. I don’t want to scare him but I’m scared. This world doesn’t feel safe anymore, when you can lose your love due to others’ errors. I don’t want to leave my bathtub or my home.
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