My heart aches for you all.
For the students, the teachers, the first responders, for the witnesses to the horror.
I cry as I read about the victims, and of the heroes.
The professor who survived the Holocaust and blocked the door with his body to save his students.
The students who slammed doors and piled tables, who tended to their classmates' wounds as the madman continued his rampage.
I cry for the families, for the brothers and sisters of the victims.
And for the parents.
Burying a child is something no parent should have to do.
I cry for you most because I know that pain.
I had less time, but I had a room to clean out, and a handful of pictures.
I have wrestled with the tears that the "What ifs" and "should have beens" bring to my throat.
You will live in a fog for the next few months. It is Nature's way of getting you to the next stage, her way of protecting you from the constant pain.
The pain will scab over. But the scab will pull at its edges, reminding you it's there. It will crack and bleed when you least expect it, and the weight of your grief will be a tidal wave that you will struggle against.
"I am so sorry for your loss" seems so trite, and yet is the only thing that can be said.
I am so sorry for your loss.