I ironed some black fabric. 
I didn’t know what else to do. 

I didn’t know what else to do with my grief, 
with my tears,
with my feeling of utter impotence to do a damned thing that would make any bit of difference.

And so I ironed some black fabric, my tears falling, meeting the heat, helping to smooth out the wrinkles. 

I ironed some black fabric, looking at their pictures as the hot steam rose to meet my anger. Fourth graders. Grandmothers. Mothers. Teachers. Aunties.

I ironed some black fabric, saying their names in the quiet grief of my movement. 

Irma Garcia
Eva Mireles, 44
Xavier Lopez, 10
Uziyah Garcia, 9
Alexandria Aniyah Rubio, 10
Jose Flores, 10
Tess Mata, 10
Amerie Jo Garza, 10
Jayce Luevanos, 10
Jailah Nicole Silguero, 10
Miranda Mathis, 11
Annabell Guadalupe Rodriguez, 10
Jackie Cazares, 10
Ellie Garcia, 10
Alithia Ramirez, 10
Rojelio Torres, 10
Makenna Lee Elrod, 10
Nevaeh Bravo, 10
Maite Yuleana Rodriguez, 10
Eliahana ‘Elijah’ Cruz Torres, 10
Layla Salazar, 10

I ironed some black fabric, and once I was done I laid it out, adding and lighting a candle for each life. I watched the lights flicker reminding me of the vibrance of their lives cut off by violence.

I ironed some black fabric and I prayed. 
I didn’t know what else to do. 

The wrinkles are gone. 
The altar is set, a candle for each life.

But they are never coming back.

And my heart still aches. 
And I feel helpless to do anything to prevent having to iron some black fabric again tomorrow.