42, according to the Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy, is the secret of life, the universe, of everything. However, having recently slid through that particular birthday, 42 has yet to impart any secrets to me.
Middle-age has not come with its own guide to this particular galaxy.
We had recently moved into our first apartment in Colorado. Eric was out of town for work, and I hosted friends in our one-bedroom, so I was sleeping on the floor in the kitchen area of the tiny space when early that morning, my phone began to buzz with texts.
"Tell me you didn't go see Batman last night."
"Just checking you are ok."
Sleepy, not having listened to the news, I started checking to see what was going on, to learn that a man opened fire in a theatre in Aurora, Colorado.
A couple years later, while Eric and I were checking out the Petrified Forest, similar texts came in.
"Where are you? Are you ok?"
"Is that clinic near you?"
A man had opened fire on the Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado Springs, which in fact, was near my primary grocery store. The police had used my bank lobby as a safe location from which to respond.
Two weeks ago, it happened again.
