It’s a Tuesday, like any other Tuesday. I suppose you need no other reason, really, to start writing again. It’s gray. It’s rainy. It’s cold. It’s twelve days to Christmas, and my house is a disaster.
Tomorrow is the anniversary of Sandy Hook. I’ve thought about it every day for the past two months as I have picked my daughter up from Kindergarten, and I’ve felt a little sick as I’ve put on her boots, zipped up her jacket, and put her hat on her head. Sick and lucky.
There are a couple of major “news events” that have had an impact on how I see the world. I watched the Challenger blow up in a gymnasium full of second graders, and I felt sick and lucky, because my own teacher had been nominated to fly. Every time I go back home, I visit the trees we planted to honor each of the astronauts we lost. They’re very tall trees now.
I remember what I was doing when I had learned that Jim Henson died. It was spring, and I was walking home from school when another kid told me. Time slowed down, and I remember looking at all of the houses, all of the trees, all of the bushes, and flowers as I walked home. I think the reason I remember that path in such detail is tied to the day Jim Henson died.
9/11. Who doesn’t remember where they were and what they were doing? I remember people looking up to the sky with their hands shading their eyes in Houston. In Houston. That’s how widespread the fear was. No one knew where a plane was going to fall.
But Sandy Hook. Sandy Hook was different. I was pregnant and making dinner in the kitchen. It was cozy. Almost Christmas. Sandy Hook chilled me from my toes to my damp eyelashes. I wasn’t yet a mom. I couldn’t really empathise. I thought I did – it hurt. I didn’t know. Now I know. It turns me inside out.