Blood on His Hands

Blood on the hands of hope

He knew this day would come. He told us he was prepared for it. That he wouldn’t hesitate. This man who has spent his entire adult life in service. Who helped the downtrodden. Picked up the dispirited. Protect the rights and life of all. Didn’t. Whether the decision was active or passive, it was his. Just as if he had held, pointed and fired the gun. Bang. Bang. Twenty-one people dead. Three days into our idealism, surely he broke down in Michelle’s arms. I would have. Video games aren’t real. Predator drones are too real. The CIA surreal.

No comment from the White House. None from the Pentagon. Pakistan officials say the dead were pro-Tailban tribesman and Al-Queda militants. Evil doers and their families. Twenty-one mother’s children were executed by our new president without a trial, just a judge. They had no last wish. No moment to repent or seek forgiveness. No time to say goodbye to those who loved them. Or face bravely their fate in that last instant. Bang. Bang.

We knew this day would come. We should have been prepared for it. We believed he wouldn’t hesitate. It happened so soon that his soul would have to harden to live this life he has won. The blood is on our hands, too. Today, I mourn for all of us.

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