6

I know 6 like I know a good cup of coffee or "To Kill a Mockingbird" or every lyric to an old Garth Brooks tune.

6 is curiosity and wonder and baby and big-girl all the same, presented in the spry little body, the doe-like eyes, the accented lilt and funny laugh.

6 is Maya, learning to read, delighting in the pleasure of drinking in words on her own, delighting in writing down her stories instead of just telling them.

6 is the rowdy boys buzzing with energy, counting down minutes until recess when they can get their hands on a ball and just. kick. it.

6 is girls and boys, awkward smiles with their teeth all askew, some permanent, some baby. It is the boy with the funny cowlick and perpetual bedhead and a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose, fading from its summer glory.

6 is secret-telling and swinging still-plump baby legs and twisting and turning spirals on the playground, getting dizzy, laughing until their bottoms meet the ground.

6 is idolizing the teacher, noticing every detail of her wardrobe and hairstyle and mannerisms. It is newly-sharpened pencils in dimpled hands, held tightly, each word written a labor of love, a piece of art. It is those perfectly pink erasers and the box that contains treasures, true treasures that extend world beyond home and neighborhood.

6 is Maya, 6 is my baby girl who hasn't seen much hurt, who has been sheltered and protected and loved beyond love, who adores her older sister and is mother-hen to her 2 year old brother.

6 is personal.

6 was the last they knew, and I can't forget.

6 was terror and screaming and crying and blood, limbs torn from bodies by the power of fifty cent bullets.

6 was trusting that adults would protect, not knowing that monsters were sometimes real.

6 was kissing their mom goodbye and climbing the steps of the bus without looking back. 6 was never returning home to the unkempt bed they left behind, the twisted sheets, pillowcases infused with the scent of them, loveys lying limp, useless now.

6 was an unfinished bowl of cereal on the kitchen table, backpacks still hung in cubbies, and perfect pink erasers that would never be marred.

6 was the last for them, and I can't forget.

I know 6.

Newtown Tribute