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A big fan of yours

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Hello!

My name is Katlyn and I’m a freelance writer who works from home with my two toddlers and Labrador Retriever. My husband and I have been married for nine years and we are living at our seventh address in our fourth state. For work, I write what I’ve been assigned. Here, I write what’s on my heart and mind.

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I’m not an expert in policy reform. I’m just a citizen who is shattered from seeing scores of innocent people murdered in my country. I’m just a mom who worries about my kids when I send them out into the world each day. When I think of protecting the lives of my children and all of those across this country, I think a good place to begin is improving gun safety.

Another week and our nation has been rocked by another tragedy. Tonight, families in Texas will sit down to dinner with empty seats at their tables and watch the clock tick toward bedtime with no children to tuck in. Children, whose parents fed and held and rocked to sleep and loved for more than a decade. And now, these parents will never again cook a favorite meal for their child, hold them in their arms, or pull covers up to their tiny chins and kiss their foreheads goodnight.

I once read you’re supposed to write from your scars and not your wounds. But what happens when a nearly-formed scar is spliced open? A fresh wound—deeper and more complex—left in its place?

One day, probably not too far from now, I’ll be at the end of a long Monday and I will look out my kitchen window and the grass will be mowed.

Keeper of the schedules and finder of the socks.

I listened to the coffee percolate as I looked out the window at the wet snow that hung heavy on branches of spring blooms. Nine days until May and we woke up to nearly half a foot of snow. I wondered if the rose bushes that had started to bud or the clematis vine that had turned green would survive this late blanket of winter. Snow a month into spring isn’t unusual in Ohio, but a deep snow is. Two weeks ago, I sunbathed on my back patio in my swimsuit. Today, the same chair I had sat in with a book was buried under fresh powder.

There will come a day I will no longer get to tell them “good night” every night.

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