A Poem for the Anniversary of the Squirrel Hill Shooting

I was scared, you know, dropping my sister off at Hebrew school that day
What if-when would-shots rang out?
I imagined her, eight years old
Hiding
In the hallowed halls I knew so well
Ducking behind the aron ha kodesh and peering out from behind bathroom stalls
Crying
Understanding, or else-
Falling
I told her I loved her, and we drove away.

I was scared when I saw the security guard outside the college
Scared when my father mentioned he’d advocated for it for years
Scared when we all sat on the floor of hall and spoke of loss
In somber voices
Scared when every teacher said, “Let’s talk about it.”
And I thought of my sister.

Hell, I thought of my mom at the grocery store, of my dad
Working downtown for a Jewish charity
That often has protestors on the sidewalk.

Looking back, I think of that day on the bus
Ron, the driver, was listening to the news:
WBZ 1030.
We were on Route 9 and the radio host said
“There was a bomb threat at the Jewish organization in Boston.”
My heart hit my shoes. (Which one? What happened? Where is my dad?)
And I started to pray.