“States Away”
I live states away— far enough that the gas doesn’t reach my lungs, close enough that the names still sting my eyes.
I learn the city by headlines: Minneapolis winter, sirens, a street that becomes a sentence no one can finish.
They say tear gas. Like it’s neat. Like it doesn’t crawl. Like it doesn’t choose children first.
I watch a clip on my phone— someone running, someone coughing, someone shouting move to a kid who doesn’t know which way is out yet.
And then the names arrive where my math homework is supposed to be:
Renee Good. A name that lands heavy, like a door closing too hard.
Alex Pretti. A name that feels unfinished, like a sentence cut mid-breath.
I don’t pretend I know everything. I know what it’s like to be told to calm down while something burns. I know what it’s like to be young and furious and polite about it anyway.
They say distance makes things smaller. That’s a lie. Distance just makes the anger quiet enough to pass for restraint.
I imagine the kids— eyes red, hands shaking, learning early that the state has a smell, and it’s chemical.
I imagine the parents trying to keep voices steady, trying not to teach fear by accident.
From here, I can’t stop it. I can’t hold anyone. I can only refuse the cold.
So I say the names out loud in my room, states away, like warmth is something you can send even when everything else is blocked.
Renee Good. Alex Pretti.
I don’t know them. But I know this: what hurts children hurts the future, and what we call order too often looks like winter from the outside
