49 Innocent People

  I've been trying to write about Saturday night's massacre in Orlando for two days now. Everything I say seems trivial, small. As if I'm making no sense, even to myself. I guess that's because it is. How can I possibly ever convey to you the outrage and sadness I feel? I can't understand it myself.

  All I know is that Saturday morning 50 people woke up. Went to work. Took care of their kids. Got a haircut. Had lunch. Talked to their parents. Held the door for someone. Did some laundry. Hugged a friend. Went dancing. 

  But one of these people took an automatic weapon and a hand gun with him when he went to the club, legally obtained I should add. When the dust finally settled he was dead. So were 38 others. Eleven more have died in the hospital since then. And more to come since many who were taken to hospital had life threatening injuries.

  Forty nine innocent people did not see the sunrise. They didn't get a chance to say goodbye to their families, children or friends. No last rites for the religious. No one to hold their hand at the end. 

 Gone forever.

  Ang