The children exited the red school doors, and ran to our arms for a double hug, each balancing on one knee. Not all parents would get a hug today.
They handed their dad two backpacks filled with stories, not bullet holes. Their clothes, warm from recess, contained no stains of fearful bowel release.
“Look, Mom, I made a birdhouse.” My daughter held up a wobbly structure with several openings. I noticed the lack of locks. When did we last live so freely? I thought. But, there are things they don’t tell us.
“Mom, can we stop by the playground? Please.” I adjusted my son’s helmet and thought of the bikes left behind on another school rack.
“Maybe for a minute,” I responded. And later, as I watched an empty park swing sway, I grieved with the parent who would never again push it.
D’Verse Prosery A heartbreaking 144 words or less hosted by Lisa. I hope she doesn’t mind if I repost her video, as I penned this while listening.
These are the things they don’t tell us.
– Girl Du Jour, from Notes on Uvalde