Ten years ago today I didn’t have a television, but my father-in-law, who was living with us, did. It didn’t sink in when he told me that there was something horrible happening at a school in Colorado, but I followed him down the stairs to the basement anyway, stared at the screen. I recognized the blue and white letter jackets before I recognized the name of the school, the garb of a rival school, a former boyfriend. The Columbine Lions had creamed our football team at their homecoming game a couple years earlier–the game where my friend’s parent’s car had gotten towed for parking in the wrong area, and we had had to hang out at a restaurant while her dad tried to track it down in the days before cell phones. The images didn’t fit.

I don’t remember if I called my parents or if they called me, if I had already known that my little brother had been at Columbine just days before for prom, or if I found that out after the fact. I remember walking into the Barnes and Noble in Duluth, the old one by Cub Foods, and bursting into tears when I saw the picture plastered across USA Today, a girl wailing, hands on her cheeks like “The Scream” painting by Edvard Munch, as another crying girl told her her that Lauren was dead. I didn’t realize until later that the wailing girl was Jess, one of my brother’s closest friends, and that Lauren had been one of the people in the group he had gone to prom with. Jess and my brother worked together at the outlet mall across from my parent’s house, and for a year after the massacre my brother would stay around after his shift until Jess finished hers, because she could not, would not, be alone.

Sometimes, swearing does not seem like a strong enough option.

At twenty-two I had no idea how to absorb what had happened, how to even begin sorting out my feelings on the subject, how to react to such senseless, stupid violence. At thirty-two I am no further along. I feel a little bit like a drama queen bringing it up. I’d feel like a heartless slab of marble not mentioning it. Am I supposed to wail and gnash my teeth, pull out the sackcloth and the ashes? Am I supposed to pretend that it’s no bigger deal to me than any of the other atrocities that happen in the world? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

So, I guess this post is just a remembrance, an acknowledgement that yes, this horrible thing did happen, and it impacted me and people that I love. A reminder, in case we’re tempted to forget any hard-won lessons learned. A time-out to shed a few tears, and be okay with that. Because what happened at Columbine was worth crying about, whether you’ve ever set foot in Littleton or not.