Almost two months ago now a beautiful six year old girl in our community died a tragically awful accidental death.
I find it hard to stop thinking about it. I drive by the house where the accident happened on my way in to town. I see Kelly’s mom at pick up, her vacant eyes hidden behind huge sunglasses. While checking out library books, I talk with the mom whose au pair was driving the car, all the time pretending it’s normal for her to be staying at home from work for all these weeks.
All the grown ups in this community have been hugging our children extra hard, feeling grateful for them and for their resilience. For the most part, the children seem ok. They seem to have moved on as children will.
And then you are reminded that Kelly and her death will always be a part of who we are now.
This morning we were talking about how big our puppy was getting. How she would be fully grown by the time she was a year old.
Caroline said, “Not like us. We keep growing until we’re like seventeen.”
As I got ready to talk about dog years and people years, ready to take advantage of the moment to work on our seven times tables, Katherine said, “Not Kelly. Kelly won’t keep growing.”
And we won’t stop remembering. Not even the littlest of us will forget.