Nobody seems to know what to do with it all.
By now, you have no doubt heard the same details I have, facts that make the atrocious murder of 19 children and their two teachers somehow much worse. That the police did not realize there were children still alive and trapped in the classroom with the shooter while they waited. That those children called 911, begging operators to send help. That one child smeared another child’s blood on herself and played dead. That at least one frantic mother ran into the school to find her child.
Like every parent in America, I grappled with that last thought–of the parents, assembled at the little elementary school, despairing, separated from their children while the scene remained active.
Like every parent in America, I saw the photos of the children online, saw the little boy with his tie on–it was awards day–running, terrified, and transposed my own son’s face upon his.
Like every parent in America, I kissed my children goodbye, sending them off for their last week of school, taking extra time to deeply inhale the scent at the crowns of their heads, my nose pressed warmly against their hair.
