Today, I held each of you tighter than I've ever held you before. I kept your heads tucked against my chest and I couldn't utter a word. And you asked me why...
You asked what was wrong...
One day I'll tell you about today, but not at this moment.
I couldn't tell you that I feel shattered. I couldn't tell you that my mind keeps painting horrid images of what those last moments might have been in that school. I couldn't tell you that my heart is torn to pieces for the parents who'll never hold their kids again in a sleepy little town; a town whose main claim to fame, had been the beautiful giant flagpole on Main Street until today.
I couldn't tell you about today...
Today, I'll tell you that twenty-six candles will burn through the night. Each one silently telling the story of the souls they represent with their flickering flame; twenty beautiful kids and six heroic women...
I ask myself, where did we go so wrong that now we send our kids to school like we send men to war, hoping and praying they return unharmed, but somehow accepting we'll lose some along the way?
Holding you tight in my arms is the only moment I'll be at peace. That's why I'll hold you tighter today...and every day, while telling you how much I love you, how happy I am to watch you grow, even as bitter tears consume me at the thought of what happened today, so close to home.
Dad
originally written on Dec 14
Beautiful, Javier! I feel much the same way. I don't remember anything hitting me as hard as this tragedy has.
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