Our family of four is spending a spring afternoon at a Midwest amusement park, dashing from ride to ride and learning how to be in crowds post-pandemic (“Don’t touch that…or that…please use this hand sanitizer for the fifth time“). 

Moments after we disembark the roller coaster, our two “older-parent” bodies staggering while our eight-and-nine-year-olds yelp with delight, a late-season cicada lands on my daughter’s sleeve. Delighted, she gives it a ride for the next two hours. 

In an attempt to head off some gathering-force meltdowns and enjoy a celebratory lunch for my husband’s birthday, we find a brewery in a far corner of the park. Once inside the cavernous, darkened restaurant, we are offered a booth near three TVs mounted in a row overhead. We find out no beer is brewed in the brewery, and learn that no one knows what fish is in the sushi until the manager concludes that it is not fish at all. 

My nine-year-old son plops down next to me on the booth’s bench, across from his dad and sister. The kids decide to share chicken wings, their first time trying the dish, and two faces are soon dripping with bar-b-que sauce. Bright-orange grease covers my daughter’s hands and spreads across her pink cheeks. She asks her dad to take a picture and laughs with delight when she sees it, enjoying her new look. None of us realize this is the first and last time she will eat chicken wings, as she declares herself a confirmed vegetarian days later. 

My son and I are facing the three TVs hanging above my husband and daughter’s heads. I glance up to see sports on the second two TVs and a news conference on the first one. My son’s eyes are on the Celtics players as they leap and shoot. 

I know immediately what the news conference is about–the happenings in Ulvade, TX the day before. A man is talking at a podium flanked by officers and his stark words unfurl clearly on the ticker below. As we continue eating our meal I announce, over my family’s protests, that I am no longer going to be joining in on the super fast jerky roller coaster rides–my coaster career is officially over. How can I coax my son to the other side of the table so that he doesn’t see the news conference facing us on the screen?

My daughter and husband head to the bathroom to wash their hands, cicada still firmly gripping her upper sleeve. I watch my son follow the basketball game. Beginning to gaze off into the distance, I consider the remainder of our day. Thanks to the distractions of today’s birthday celebration and amusement park entertainment I’ve been able to temporarily push away the headlines about yesterday’s shooting in Texas, although fleeting fears have snuck in at moments like the panic-inducing crest of the rollercoaster or imagined gunshots as we pass through a crowded thoroughfare at the park. 

My son is still watching basketball and they are almost back from the bathroom. I’ve requested the bill and plan to hustle us directly toward the exit before anyone notices the press conference–I can’t suggest we switch to the other side of the booth because my highly sensitive and inquisitive son would demand a reason why. Then I see his gaze shift squarely to the first TV. 

Of course, he sees it. The TV is directly in front of him after all. I curse myself, why didn’t I move tables when we first came in? Because it was the only available booth and given a choice my kids always pick the booth. 

I follow along as his eyes skim the ticker, then his mouth forms the words while he reads out loud “Eighteen-year-old man shoots seventeen 9-year-olds and their teacher.” 

Am I watching the moment my son loses his innocence, his faith that his parents and his teachers are infallible and the world around him is mostly good? He blinks his eyes and I know his brain can barely register such horror. And their teacher….? He looks at me his eyes wide as quarters. I know what he is going to ask next. I better start forming an answer. 

“Why, mom? Why would he do that?”

I will myself to form words with my mouth…but what words? What words can make order out of chaos, hope out of despair, and life out of death?

I say that the man wasn’t well in his head, that he needed help and love that he didn’t get. It’s up to us to change this world, up to us to create more love and less of this (I point to the screen), I tell my son. Less guns, less hate. More love. My boy is still processing the headline, mouth open in disbelief. Is he trying to imagine it might not be true? Daughter and husband return to the table.  

Once they are seated back on their side my son leans slowly across the table toward his sister…drawing out her name in a mischievous tone. I know he wants to share the forbidden information, to tell her about what he just saw announced on TV. I say his name sharply and he gets quiet. “Which roller coaster we should hunt down next? I ask everyone…“It’s still Dad’s birthday!” I announce loudly.

The check is resolved and I shuffle us toward the exit–my son half runs half skips out and settles into step next to his dad. They walk up the path ahead, their moving figures silhouetted in the afternoon sun.  

Walking next to me, my daughter calls out softly, “Mom, look.” I watch as the cicada hesitates, then steps off her hand and onto a leaf, both plant and insect glowing emerald green in the light. After making sure the cicada is safe, my daughter leaves it tucked into a curled sleeping bag of a leaf; unbothered, hidden, and protected. 

We walk into the waning afternoon light.