Seven hundred flames to counter a pastor in Sacramento and another in Tempe who both lamented that not more of us had died. Words were spoken afterward, some in the form of prayer, others an acknowledgement that while we are not victims, neither are we the cause to hate’s effect. They embraced, lit candles, and raised their flames overhead to memorialize our dead and console the living, while trying to make sense of the senseless-the nature of hate, and our role in it. A single call had gone out-one-and before the sun had fully set that same evening, in a local park on the other side of the planet, seven hundred people had gathered. My husband called me during my stateside visit the day the heartbreak made the news to tell me he’d attended a vigil back home in Auckland, New Zealand. It’s a grassroots groundswell that is best illustrated through an example that’s repeating itself around the world like some queer, universal ditto. It started quietly, unremarkably, but has built quite a head of steam. It’s happening as I type-our stubborn refusal to be erased-though, by God, there are a lot of people trying.

We’re dusting ourselves off, reaching out a hand to lift one another up, and getting ready for the next round, because, let’s be honest, when it comes to the queer community, there’s always another round. My LGBT family is doing what it does best. The Orlando massacre is barely in my rear view window, and I’m already seeing it.

The lemoncholy life of annie aster