Three years later, today.
The cameras and the crowds long gone,
The memorials mostly removed
Or tattered, or scattered to the winds,
Or incinerated in cleansing ceremonial fire,
The building remains.
The current students and staff pass it daily.
Park next to it. Run past it. Stand in its shadow.
Wearing masks now of course because Covid.
But the 17 don’t have to wear masks.
They are exempted in the way ghosts always are.
Ever-present, sometimes remembered,
But never participants. Observers only.
The building is fenced in, faded, forlorn,
Still spattered perhaps, with their blood
In the upstairs hallway where it happened.
Dried now, brown and cracked.
Their outlines taped on the floor where they fell,
Waiting to be evidence in the trial that has never happened.
Perhaps a few shell casing still scattered around,
Or those little yellow numbers they use
On TV crime shows to mark the things
That should be noted. Jotted down.
Photographed. Recorded. Remembered.
But the 17 cannot be photographed.
They are invisible in the way ghosts always are,
And what they are now is not
How they would want to be remembered.
Three years ago, more or less,
Minus the weeks of closure, and of barricades,
As I walked past the crosses and stars,
Shining brightly in the glare of the
News media lights,
The consoling banners from everywhere,
Littered with hashtags of the moment,
Past the flowers, and candles and photos, and
Painted stones, and prayers, and mementos
From music, sport, and all the usual ephemera
Of High School normally reserved for nostalgia,
Of wistful thoughts for future years,
And stopped at a fenced corral of bicycles,
And wondered, did any of these belong
To one of the murdered?
But the 17 can no longer ride, so they (the bicycles)
Sit, and rust, unclaimed. They will be freed from
Captivity at year’s-end with bolt-cutters
To find a new home, to find a new life?
The 17 ghosts can never be freed.
They will always be there,
In or near the place where it happened.
They may tear it down, one day,
Raze it, bulldoze it, obliterate it,
Those same self-serving citizens
Who always say that guns don’t kill people,
People do. (People with guns, I presume).
The 17 know all about that.
They have heard all of the arguments,
All of the debates, all the pointless yammering
Of the politicians, and the news media,
Of those who think someone should be blamed,
And those who want to avoid being blamed.
They’ve heard it all, and watched
Official Personages hover overhead
From the safety of their helicopters, where
They look at the building and perhaps
Say something profound like,
“Is that the building? The tall one?”
“Yes it is.” “OK. I’ve seen it.
How long should we hover here?”
“Ten minutes, to make it look like our presence
Has importance. Value. Meaning. To give us
Talking points, campaign images, street cred.
To make it look as if you care. As if you know
The meaning of Empathy.
Then we can go golfing. The NRA is paying for it.
Through a shell company of a shell company.
This is Florida after all. Drinks included.”
The 17 don’t need to go fact-finding.
They were there. Are still there.
We know they’re there, we who live here.
Those of us who knew students, or teachers
Who were lost, or saw others slaughtered
Before their eyes, helpless to help,
And heard the helicopters overhead for days
And drove past the media ghouls
And those advertising an alternate reality
In which this was all an act, a farce,
And the dead students never existed,
And the grieving parents are mistaken,
And the grieving siblings are confused,
And it is all a carefully staged sham,
The blood, and bullets, and broken glass,
The deafening sound of assault weapons
Echoing off cinder-block walls.
Pretend all you want. Rant against the truth.
But the 17 are still there.
Watching you. Watching us.
Waiting to see if anything really changes.
Waiting to see if we live our lives differently.
Who would ever have imagined
An alternate universe in which
There were no school shootings
Because Covid made it so?
So thank you, pandemic, for
The unexpected gift of life.
We can only hope that,
When the plague is over,
The living will continue.
