The Ceasefire

Where Iranian missiles are headed, not where they land necessarily

 I didn't even know about this agreement when I woke up to an alarm this morning, that's how fast things happen. I slip on my terrycloth robe and crocs, knock on my mother-in-law's door, wave to FD who is staring into his phone, then I head downstairs to the miklat. 

'The ceasefire doesn't start until 7, they are all saying.  

Oh! There is a ceasefire.

The Iranians are getting in their last licks. 

That makes sense. But there are four more of these alarms, maybe more, so we have to wonder if we should simply set up shop down there. What's the sense of running up and down the stairs? It is good exercise, yes, my muscles have never been stronger, thanks to this leader they have in Iran, whatever his name is. 

Between the sirens I go outside to get a little fresh air. A few of my neighbors are there, some vaping. One says to me, It will be okay. My neighbors see this new American and assume that I must be afraid. There is some truth to that. I tell her: 

I heard that three people died this morning. 

I know, she says, patting my arm. We all grieve every time. It never gets better.

It's been an hour and forty minutes, however, so maybe this one will stick. Maybe there really is a ceasefire. Maybe the Iranians, when they shot off missiles at 7:05 didn't read their clocks correctly. Maybe this is really over.

Please the Old Mighty.

Hugs and kisses, 

therapydoc