I've spent two days tweeting nothing but my thoughts on guns. And I feel a bit embarrassed really, because I know it is getting old already. But then I glance at a newspaper and see the face of a mother running towards the school, the face of a mother who doesn't know if her child is dead or alive, and I don't have room in my head or my heart for anything else.
Victoria Soto, teacher, is dead. She was only twenty-seven. She took a bullet so that sixteen children could live. She is a fucking hero in the civil war that is being waged against Americans by the people who equate freedom with the right to own killing machines.
Twenty beautiful children, children who were still learning to read and tie their shoe laces, who still needed help opening their squeezy yoghurts and tupperware containers at morning tea time, who were still mastering the finer points of speech with a tendency to replace r's with w's and th's with f's, who were still scared that a monster lived under their beds ... those twenty children are gone forever.
An entire community is traumatised. A nation is mourning. A president is deciding whether he has the courage to take on the evil that is the NRA, a gun culture that is the nation's mental illness.
Four teachers are dead. A school principal is dead. A school psychologist is dead. Twenty children are dead. A mother is dead. And her son is dead.
There is nothing we can do to bring back the dead. There is no magic or prayer that can take away a grief as monstrous as having your child slaughtered by a man with a legally obtained killing machine.
We can't bring back the dead, but we can change the future. Starting now.
Call the White House 202-456-1111