Up

Their voices rise up.

Up through tears and unspeakable grief.

Up to where deafened leaders and the oh-so-status-quo might be able to hear.

How high can a human voice rise?

Can it rise above the political din of gun-loving sons fighting mightily for rights
to bumper stocks and auto-Glocks
while sending thoughts and prayers?

Can it rise up above the numbers and numbness?

(Guns have killed over 4,310 people so far this year, and it is only April.)

Can a human voice rise to the height of angels’ wings?
Angels of our fallen, our first graders, third graders, seventh graders, tenth graders, our school teachers, concert goers, baseball players, the pealing teens in skin-tight jeans, the toddler standing too near the living room window, the young mother walking to the Walgreen’s, the lovestruck couple at the movie theatre,
the everyman and everywoman and everyboy and everygirl
who
are
no
longer?

How high up can a human voice rise?

High enough, I hope.

High enough
to reach
God’s ears.

Written in tribute to the students of Parkland.