December 14, 2012 EC
It’s 9:30 in the morning. I take a knee to answer Day Shawn’s question. My co-teacher finishes her lecture about women reformers. Felicia arrives late and settles into her seat up front.
Meanwhile, a gunman shatters the window of a first-grade classroom, enters, and opens fire.
Frank J. Tassone
Noon. Each surviving child holds the shoulder of the child in front. Their eyes are closed, even outside.
All my department colleagues and I can do is stare at the live feed. Verna alone has the decency to cry.
blood splattered on
"Almost 5:00. I come empty-handed to Dad’s grave.” Weekend traffic builds on the adjoining I-287. An elderly man wearing an American Legion jacket stares at a headstone decorated by a single wreath.
I kneel and touch the salmon-colored granite. Feel the imprint of his name. The sun shines from just above the tree line.
I have already seen too much death today. But here I am, remembering one more.
sneakers stepping beside
murder of crows
a final flight over
the bare Maples