I was at our local independent bookstore, looking for a perfect card for a special friend. As I slowly twirled the card rack, I heard an excited little voice.

““Look, mommy, mommy – Santa card!”

She was maybe 3, in a sparkly princess skirt, blue puffy jacket, pink tights and snow boots and she was pointing at a card near the bottom of the rack. I stopped twirling.

Her mom, who was leaning against a wall of books, had a remarkably calm voice. “Yes, my love, that’s Santa.” The girl reached for the card and pulled it out of the rack. The mother stooped down, “My love, can you give me the card? We need to put it back.” The girl hesitated. “I know it’s hard, my love, but this card belongs to the bookstore. We need to put it back.“ She gave up the card with a little pout. “That’s a good girl. You’re so grown up.”

“I want Santa,” she said in a small, hopeless voice, staring at the card.  

“I know, my love, it’s frustrating, isn’t it? Here, do you want some tea? It’s not too hot.” The girl shook her head at the paper cup and the mother did some more “my loves” and some more understanding talk about how hard it is to wait for grandpa, and how later they would go to the children’s museum, and how grown up the little girl was, and then just as I was about to give up on the card rack and save myself from one more “my love,” the girl filled her lungs and howled, a long, exhausted, primal howl. She gasped at the end for breath and began sobbing.

My throat tightened, my eyes burned. The howl was so compelling, so heart-felt, so universal. I felt she was howling for me, for all of us who struggle to carry on, do normal things, in a world that seems so insane, so cruel, so doomed.  I was just trying to buy the right card for a friend. The girl was just trying to be a normal little girl, excited at the sight of Santa. Her mother, heroically, was trying to be a calm, compassionate, reassuring mom, teaching her daughter how to be a good citizen and a caring person. But we all knew, underneath it all, that there is something seriously, perhaps terminally, wrong with this country and that pretending we are in a normal world is fantasy. The little girl in the princess skirt howled the truth.

I’m not saying we should forget normal things and start building a bomb shelter or move to Portugal.  And I’m not saying that we should stop being loving and supportive of those around us. The number of “my loves” made me squirm, but the mother was doing everything she could to comfort her child, to make her feel safe and understood, and that is a good thing. My life is filled with kind, supportive friends and family telling me I am a good citizen and valuable human being, and I really appreciate it. But the little girl got it right. No amount of “my loves” or cups of tea is going to make it ok. In this moment, it seems we are all going to hell in a hand-basket and sometimes – like in the middle of a bookstore — there is nothing to do but howl.