“It is never too late to be
what you might have been.”
- George Eliot

Environment is a very odd thing.  It was very odd to go home yesterday, see Bryan pale and exhausted, grieve with him awhile, make plans for vigils, and then head to callbacks.  At callbacks, there was no death, there was no suffering, the day of “the bus accident” didn’t seem to exist.  After three hours of chipper, fueled excitement, Elyse and I drove home and I teared up at the little things.. how, for two years now, my favorite way to wind down at night and celebrate the holidays was to hear her pretty voice mix with mine as we sang Christmas carols on the radio.

After dropping the child off, I went home where, again, there was non-stop coverage on tv.  We talked about the vigils Bryan and Steph had attended, how they had unknowingly driven by the crash site, how the whole city seemed in such disarray over this. 

And how helpless it all felt.

Now, it’s easy to fall into the martyrish trap of mourning lives you never knew.  It’s easy to want to cry for the loss that doesn’t really touch you, or for the pain that you only see, or for the chaos you read about.  That would be me.  And to watch the exhaustion on those who really lived it.. that is draining beyond words.  Bryan’s color still hasn’t returned.  Steph’s voice is gone.

I’ve tried to mobilize Lee High Alumni through the only means I know how: the MySpace community.  I’ve offered the information on how to donate to the memorial fund.  I’ve given links to the various news stories.  I can only pray action is taken to help the FamiLee we all grew up inside.

This morning, one of my favorite coworkers from my old job sent out an email with funeral arrangements.  Christine was his cousin.  I responded back with the kind words Steph had said about her, and he walked over to hug me and thank me.  No one else in the building had any idea what was happening.  Here, in these walls, we only concern ourselves with defense. 

It’s a terrifying thing.  Growing up, I spent close to two hours a day on a school bus.  Bryan did, too.  He said one bus he was on was in a wreck; I think we may have run out of gas once.  But nothing major.  Nothing like this. 

And can I just say, to whatever furor it raises, that it is a miracle that only three lives were lost?  A bus of 30-some-odd students, thrown over an overpass, landed nose first, and we lost only three precious lives.  It is a miracle, truly.

I know it doesn’t feel that way today.

I’m rambling.  I apologize.  I’ll be more cohesive later.