The call comes, a child’s whisper: There’s a shooter. Can’t talk. Police are coming. I love you. We say it is unthinkable, unimaginable. But we can imagine it all. The sound of shots, staccato popcorn of gunfire, screaming, footsteps pounding, running on high school hallways, shoes squeaking, desks crashing on hard floors, glass shattering, bodies falling, thudding as they hit the ground, moans, whispers, crimson blood, the wail of sirens. We say it’s unthinkable, unimaginable. But we can picture it all, the faces of our children, our teachers, our principal. We conjure an image of the shooter, envisioning the loner from our own high school. Quiet, strange, we say to ourselves. Bullied, his classmates will say on TV. We can see it all clearly because it has happened so many times we know the scene: Police tape and press conferences, candlelight vigils on football fields, crying, the shock of too-small caskets. We say it's unthinkable, unimaginable. Yet here it is, blood in our town. The call comes today, our own child whispering: There’s a shooter. Can’t talk. Police are coming. I love you.
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This should be read in the opening day of our legislature & printed in the Register. Painfully perfect. Thanks
It hurts to read this. It demands a response. Thank you, Judy Conlin