The littlest angels

Dear Universe:

All I can think is to talk with you.  I’ve cried, I’ve hugged my children so hard their ribs are sore, and now I’m reaching out to the Unknown to talk about the unimaginable.  Because when something that should never happen does happen, you have to talk about it; you have to figure out how to make sure it never happens again.  Dear Universe, please, this can never happen again.

In so many ways, those babies who perished were all of our babies; they were all of our angels and now they are your angels and I ask that you take extra special care of them.  I’m sure you will, but just asking makes me feel better; a little less hopeless and helpless.  They are loved and they are cared for.  Thank you for that.

I think that we are at our best when we are the ages of your newest angels—between 5 and 10 years old.  We are innocent, loving, caring; we don’t see flaws as faults; we believe in Santa; we see wonder in the wonderful and the ordinary.  We are the human ideals we spend the remainder of lives trying to emulate.  And we become our best again when we are lucky enough to be the parent of those ages.  We relive that wonder, that unconditional love, the innocence, the magic of Santa.  That is the real tragedy--the absolute best of all that is a human being were the ones who were most directly affected.

Dear Universe, those closest to this unreal event are suffering, are hurting, and their lives will never be the same.  I can’t ask you to take that away from them, to heal their pain, because nothing will do that.  All I can ask and all I can hope for is that they know and feel, really, truly feel, the immense amount of love and empathy that every person that ever has been and ever will be a parent to those “best ages” feels for their loss.  Please, let them know how much we all loved their babies.  And how much we love their babies’ parents.

Thank you, Dear Universe.