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Two weeks before the letter bombs, Tree of Life massacre, and two senseless murders in Kentucky, I borrowed a book from the library, “Only Child” by Rhiannon Navin. The summary says this novel is about a school shooting and a family’s struggle to cope with the loss of their son. I don’t know why I chose that book. After all, we’re drowning in mass murders in this country. I really don’t want to experience more sadness and powerlessness.
But borrow it I did. And then in one week all that killing happened, and the book stayed in my library bag. Two weeks later, it’s done. I finished the book, and I’m glad I did. It’s not about the guns.
Every time there is an attack, we focus, rightfully, on those who died. Their pictures are plastered on the news, on walls, at vigils. We mourn for lives cut short, for their futures and families and talents that will never be realized.
For a short time, the bereaved families are highlighted as we come to grips with yet more violent, senseless deaths. As public attention and emotions die down, and the media focuses on the next disaster, so does the focus on the families disappear. Most of us know nothing about the aftermath for them of the violent death of a loved one. They become, for the most part, the silent victims, the just-barely living victims.
