How I Got Through The Anniversary of Getting Shot

Actually, I'm not sure I got through it at all.

The day happened, and I lived.  That's one way of looking at it.

But the sludge of the sorrow is stuck to my skin and I can't seem to shake it.

It didn't help that when I drove to and from playing cards this afternoon 

 the Safeway parking lot where I was perforated was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, 

was filled with fire engines and police cars and ambulances, 

was noisy and sunny and frantic.

Four hours of commotion; this was more than a fender bender, I'm sure.

For me, it was lying on the cement outside that Safeway, 

it was being carried on a slant board to a medevac helicopter, 

it was feeling terrified, it was Christina-Taylor.

The feelings are never too far from the surface.  Sometimes they refuse to be kept down.

That's how it was last Friday.

The five year anniversary was, as Ms Levine told her kindergarteners, "a tricky day" for me.

Because she knew it would make me smile, 

Ms Levine let this little one take her new, Santa got it for me hat from her cubbie.

Taking things out of cubbies is not part of the usual routine,

but Friday wasn't a usual day.

The kids were very proud of their pictures,

showing off all the details.

Details are very important.

This depiction of Stinky, the garbage truck has smells emanating from every side.

Her story is filled with complex sentences.

She sounds out the unfamiliar words and uses the Sight Words posted on the wall for the easy ones she's momentarily misplaced in her brain.

The tangrams fit on the paper and create words.

Reading them was simple, she said.

I was as proud of her as she was of herself,

as he was of himself.

The b and the d were a source of great amusement to her,

but obviously blue required a b.

Watching them think was better than watching the clock.

Ms Levine kept trying to distract me,

and gave me a moment at 10:10 am,

and then it was back to Reading Centers 

where we were making the letters out of our bodies.

That is an F.

F as in friends, which these two most definitely are.

The hours passed.

The sludge is still here.

Sigh.