dropping the kids off at school this morning felt wrong. like i was bubbling in B on a scantron but i knew the answer was C. my body was screaming at me, "take them home. it's not safe here. don't leave them here. why are you doing this? stop. keep them with you. stop!!"
but if i kept them home, i would have had to tell them why, and i can't place that burden on them.
i said goodbye 2 hours and 26 minutes ago. as far as i know, my children are still alive.
as i drove away from the girls' school, i watched them. watching their shadows, slowly spinning around and noticing the long shapes in the morning light. i studied their floppy pink and purple backpacks they each picked out the summer before kindergarten. i wondered if this was the last moment i'll ever see them alive. not in a hypothetical way. in a real way. in my body, at this moment, i am housing the possibility of the flurry of texts with other moms, sirens blaring up my street, young blood splattered across the rainbow rug and the Important Person reports stapled to the walls of their small classrooms. this isn't an alex-specific nightmare. it's not a freak accident. it happened to hundreds of families YESTERDAY.
i should have taken a picture of them this morning.
here's a thought – and hear me out –
fuck this.