The lines, the finite little cracks in the road, come together and tear apart continually as I walk along the street.
A fine summer day, a perfect 85 degrees with full sunshine.
I stare at the miniature fault lines of construction crews that were at this very spot in the street, long before I was.
These little things, not the green ribbon magnets on the backs of cars all over town, or
the Broadway plays that grace us with their presences, are what make me think.
Did these cracks in the road look the same as they did on that one day in December?
It’s been eight months now, and the heat of the summer could easily have heaved and ho’d them apart.
The fact that even the lines in the roads have changed since then reminds me of how much my little Connecticut community has changed.
I was never afraid to go to school.
My first grade teacher was the best teacher I’ve ever had. My younger sister, too, was fortunate to have her after me.
And now comes the anger.
The most important things were lost that day, not even two miles from where I was.
People tell me their fear of explaining to new friends at college where they are from. They don’t want to be judged.
Neither do I.
My mother wanted to move, to move far, far away, right after it happened. She said she didn’t want it to become a part of my identity.
I had to explain to her that it already is.