A Mother in Boston

Normally, at this time of night, I would be getting ready for bed.  By now, it has been a long day and I am ready to take my shower and fall into bed with my husband and sleep.  Tonight though, tonight I am anxious.  I am disturbed.  I am heartbroken.

A child died today.  A child.   Someone orchestrated a plan that caused the death of an innocent child.  A child that will never eat dinner with their family again, that will never again crawl into their favorite pajamas and listen to Mom or Dad read them a bedtime story.  A child who will never again run, play, ride a bike, draw, or create.  A child died today that could have helped fix our world.

As I tucked my daughter into bed tonight with her favorite stuffed animal, Ellie, her baby doll, and one of her favorite books, I thought of that child's mother.  She didn't know that the night before was the last bed time story or that the last kiss from her child was really the last kiss.  I took my time tucking Lynzi in tonight.  I lingered, studying her face and how she snuggles under the blanket that I laid over her.  I kissed her two more times and told her I loved her two more times before I shut the door to her room.

Once for me and once for the mother who cannot kiss her own child anymore and tell them that she loves them.

*     *     *     *

Dear Mother to that Precious Child,

I am sorry.  I know those words are not enough, but I am sorry.  They will not bring your child back, but I wish they could.  I cannot imagine what you are going through, but from one mother to another, I want to take this pain away from you.  I wish it was all a horrible dream that you will awake from soon.  I wish this for you, very hard and very deeply.  This wish resonates in my soul and I send it out as an echo into the world, hoping that you hear it wherever you are.

I am writing to tell you that when I look at my child from this day forward, I will remember your child and you.  You and your child will never be forgotten in me.  I will take more time with mine because you no longer have that time.  I will wipe chocolate pudding from her face and smile and file that memory away when she is too old to be getting that dirty.  I will smile at the fingerprints on my windows; I may even photograph them.  I will read one more story to her when the mood strikes me or when she asks me to.  I will do all of this, and more, because you cannot any longer.

Tonight I feel very small.  I don't know if you will ever see or read this, but a part of me hopes that you do, so that you may, for one minute, know that there is a good soul out in this big world.  Despite today's events, there are good people everywhere.  People like me cry in our home's when thing's like this happen.  We shed tears over people we do not know, we try to put ourselves into the victim's shoes, and we send love to the victim's.  We silently send love and warmth and peace and light to victim's of tragedies such as this.

We are here.  We care. Our silence is sent to you from hundreds and thousands of miles away, enveloping you in an embrace that will hopefully carry you throughout the next few days, weeks, months, and even years.  When you feel like you can't go on, you can.  Be still and you will feel the love and strength that we send to you and you will put one foot in front of the other and you will continue on your journey.

I will never forget you or your child, ever.

From one mother to another, I love you and I send you peace.

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