"My home is broken," she cried,
her 3-year-old mind
trying to process
our careful explanations,
our hugs and kisses
that day suspiciously
more than the
usual overabundance.
I tried to hold back tears
as I now came to terms
with no longer
being in the city,
our suburban jaunt
shockingly suddenly meaningful,
that her Daddy probably
would have been there
had we stayed,
that we probably
would have lived nearby.
She asks about
fixing the city,
about police taking
the bad away.
"Maybe a dragon
will come,
a great big powerful dragon
to help the sad city."
She prepares what to say
if they come here,
that her cartoon supergirl heroes'
inspired moves will
drive them out.
And I assure her
here she is safe.
The small quiet calm
we critiqued boring,
the antithesis of the
urban we so adored.
I have yet to tell her
we may never see
it again
our fear and sorrow,
obliterating planned excursions
celebrations
chances even for coming
back to that home
once more.
I wish I could believe
in her dragons,
wish it was that
grand and simple.
Wish the dragon
with one swipe
of its tail
re-alter history
and not have
reason for anyone to cry.
She summed it up
perfectly:
"our home is broken."
The healing
has barely begun.

• American Tragedy Memorial Page.
• Talk about it on the American Tragedy discussion board.
• A Letter to My Children
• Protecting the Innocents
• Reflections on an American Tragedy
• Parents Can Help Minimize Children's Trauma Following Terrorist Attacks
• Zoe's Tears
• God is in Control