This morning a child was hit by a car and killed in front of my children's school.
She was 15 years old, crossing the street to get on the bus.
The bus had its stop sign extended and its red lights were flashing, but the driver did not stop.
I put my children on their bus this morning, wondering why the bus was a few minutes late. I put the breakfast dishes in the dish washer and brushed my teeth and got in my car to drive to work.
The road in front of my children's school was closed to all traffic. There were many, many police cars. The police officer motioned for me to turn my car around, and my hands shook against the steering wheel as I did so.
I was terrified, terrified that something had happened at the elementary school, and I am ashamed by my own immediate feeling of unbelievable relief when I was told that the victim of the accident was fifteen.
"Not one of mine, not one of mine, not one of mine," spun in my head for a few seconds.
And then I was filled with horror and sadness.
I cannot imagine the anguish this child's parents must be feeling. I am angry with the driver, and I want to know...why didn't she stop? Why didn't she stop?
I am worried about what my children saw when their bus drove them past the accident. (They were allowing school buses to go through the police barricade.)
The collective grief of my pleasant little suburb is heavy on my heart.