by Margot Kahn | Contributing Writer
There have been times in my life, and many more since I’ve become a mother, when I’ve walked around wondering how any of us hold our fear. Fear of the big quake. Fear of the rising seas. Fear of the shooting that happened near the school where your eight-year-old, who still snuggles his blanket, is now locked in a room with a clear glass door. Think of the day your friend’s son fell through the ropes of the two-story spider web at the neighborhood park; visualize the image of him snagged by a shoe and dangling, head toward the ground, until rescued. Remember how your friend told you this story as you watched the children—your children, other people’s children—climb the very same structure again and again, the two of you whispering your fears into each other’s ears, then calling the children for a snack, holding hands on the way home. It’s unconscionable.