Today I send a prayer for the families of those aboard MH 17 whose lives have been torn apart on the ground. In the months and weeks leading up to Daddykins’ death, my sister and I fretted over the unpredictability and fragility of our own lives. Would our health be good enough so we could look after our father? Would we be around long enough to bid him farewell? Would our families cooperate? More than anything, my sister and I would worry about our frequent plane journeys to and from India. My sister would always fly over a turbulent Bay of Bengal. I worried about being suspended over the Pacific for over half a day. What if, we’d ask each other, what if we met our maker long before Daddykins himself arrived at the pearly gates? I was thinking today about how technology had affected my life on the ground. When I’m in the bathroom for longer than two minutes, my family texts me in panic: “Hey, where’d you go?” At a time when technology tracks my status in the bathroom, one humungous airplane has vanished and another has been shot down, proving, once again, that every life on earth hangs—like an egg in a hummingbird’s nest at the edge of a swaying branch of a mango tree.
Posted on: Fri, 18 Jul 2014 03:48:34 +0000
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