There was an active shooter on a bridge,years ago, while we were touristsand hoping to see The Lion King onBroadway—had to see Beauty andthe Beast instead—a long daytrudging the pavement trying to shovememories into disposable cameraswhile fighting off the cold andeating Rice Krispie treats Tyler’sgrandma brought on the bus all theway from Mississippi. A stopin Chinatown netted me a wild horse:purple plastic, glowing radioactive inthe dark twenty years later, a survivor ofthat trip and more. I held it then, andfelt an immense longing to escape.I pack it last each time I move and findit a new place of prominence, like now,its head down and hind legs defying thesky, gravity paused. I never knew aboutthe active shooter until years later.The kids were kept in the dark, shuffledfrom safe zone to safe zone whilemaintaining a cordon of education,“Look at that historical monument;pose for a picture with the statue of aGerman shepherd; let’s get back on the bus!”We all cried at the fence memorialsurrounding Ground Zero. Plastic flowers,cards, photographs, dried tears. I rememberthe chain links were cold and so were myhands and nose. I needed a tissue;I remembered the day the towers felland how we all knelt by our desks,hard linoleum beneath tiny knees,and prayed for them—
we prayed for towers as they fell.
Photo by Ged Lawson on Unsplash