Trap Door Lessons Look at a photo of young lovers - not-then vintage sunglasses, sipping beer a beaming overture in the Midwestern sun. Ma suns with pops on an afghan, safely smoking cigarettes in a post-WWII era; MLK Jr. had just won a peace prize. Laid back, smooching, family-planning on side-yard grass, bushy and green; 5 years later the trap door buckled there. A 4-year-old struck down by a car. I will not generalize continued family ache. A Savior said, “Be not afraid,” but how now? Horizons expanded, for better or worse; the devil’s lessons are devised with terror: ambulances, hissing lungs, cracked skulls. Tell me the value of that stone cold lesson. My ma ain’t got no grand advice now; except, standby condolences don’t cut it with her. Twisted, mangled, Godless nightmares haunt neighborhood corners needing stop signs, kick her stomach with impromptu sorrow. Time and again, whimsy sparkles in her eye, Pink Panther movies and my niece’s laughter be the sweet balm needed for healing. But I'm all caught up in wondering whether sorrow is the devil's work, whether it's important to prepare. My rose-colored lover IMs this reminder: “Attempt to avoid the egg-walking, babe!” I hold his face, kiss his optimism. My lesson broke though unexpectedly on a Wednesday morning in Autumn. Terror ain’t got nothing on love. Nothing.