I looked down at my 20 month old. He was trying to get into the recycling again, his hands searching in the dark cupboard underneath the sink. At any other moment, I would have redirected him. Go play with your blocks, I might say. Or, where is the doggy? But not this moment. I couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.
For this moment, I just listened. I listened to the story of the girl hearing the loud bangs in the gym. I listened to the reporter say Obama would speak soon. I heard them say that the shooter was confirmed dead.
I didn’t turn on the TV, though. I knew I couldn’t sit through those images – those faces. It was hard enough to clear those voices out of my head.
Instead, I watched my son pulling out the empty boxes, throwing them on the floor. Covering them in dish soap. And then I turned off the radio, sat down on the floor and pulled out a box of my own.