From the outside it looks like all the rest of the houses. There’s a white picket fence surrounding slightly dead looking grass covered with the fallen leaves of autumn. A stray cat streaks out of the backyard. A blue Honda Odyssey blocks the driveway. In fact, it seems to blend in with the almost identical houses to its right and left. It’s only when I look closer, taking in details only someone with knowledge of the backstory would notice, that I see the differences. The mail hasn’t been taken in for days. There are garbage bags overflowing with crumpled tissues heaped in the trash cans. The basketballs that in the past were used daily are lying deflated in the driveway. I know why. I know the reason no one cares about the mail anymore. I know that no bills, ads or wedding invitations can ever change the past. I know that for every tissue tossed out in the garbage can outside there are five more being soaked through in the living room. I know that those basketballs will never be used again by the person who so often shot hoops with them before. And I know that no one was willing to move them from where he left them.
I sigh and look down at the paper I clutch in my fist. I spent time painstakingly folding it so perfectly and now it’s crumpled into a ball. I wonder, as I did around eighty six times on my walk over, if I’m doing the right thing. I wonder if this will just make it all the more painful for the already heartbroken family. The chilled wind blows and shakes me out of my panicked thoughts. The sun’s already setting. I’ve been here longer than I thought. It’s been an hour since I left my house, telling my mom that I was just going to run a few errands. Under normal circumstances I’m sure neighbors would be asking what a teenage girl is doing standing outside of this house for an hour. But no one says anything. I’m not even positive that I’m noticed at all by the many people tracking in and out of the house. And if they do notice they don’t say anything. After all, why should they? They have more important things on their minds. Important things like a certain sixteen year old, who isn’t me.
The rough edge of the paper is biting into my palm now. I think back to the words I so carefully chose and so may times erased, before rewriting them all over again.
To the King family:
Is this enough? Am I doing my part by sending this letter? Or am I making a mistake?
Firstly I would like to offer my deepest condolences on your loss….
I think back to the day I first heard about the tragedy. It was just a normal Monday morning for me. I woke up before the sun rose, caught up on late homeworks on the bus and chit chatted with my friends. The biggest of my problems was the fact that there was no milk available and I had to eat my Raisin Bran dry.
I know I can never understand what you’re going through right now and I’m not going to pretend to.
They told us the news at mincha. The whole school sat for a moment in utter silence trying to comprehend what they just heard. I remember what I felt just then. I remember the feeling of my heart splitting down the middle for the familes who just lost a precious child and an innocent young man who no doubt blames himself for what happened.
There’s nothing I can say that can change anything or take away your pain, and I know that. But I need you to know that I care.
I prayed extra hard that day. I asked G-d impossible questions, wishing I would get an answer. Why? Why them? Why now? Why put so many people through so much pain? I was so upset by this story. Things like this happen every day all around the world, but this one hit a little too close to home.
I don’t know you. I never knew your son. But this hit me hard and all I want to do is help you.
That night when I got home I went straight to the computer and instead of instantly going to chat with my friends, I looked up the story. I wanted to see how the news crews would show it. I watched clips of the funerals, I read heartwarming and inspiring messages left by Jews all around the world and that night I cried myself to sleep.
Today I prayed extra hard for you. I asked G-d to make it easier for you and to give you signs that your son is watching over you. Because I know he is.
The days after passed in a blur. I had tests and assignments and many things that kept me occupied, but I didn’t forget. How could I? Two boys my age were just snatched from this world and I was alive. I felt lucky to be alive and at the same time guilty that I was.
Why should I go on with my life, taking everything for granted while you’re suffering? As Jews, we are a family. Your loss is our loss and we can’t ignore that.
It was killing me. I needed to do something about it. The dilemna was always weighing on my mind. Should I go visit the family? Should I start a movement in his honor? I came up with many big plans but none of them felt right. I didn’t feel like it was my place to do these things, but the need to do something, anything, was burning in my veins. That’s when I decided to write the letter.
Even if you throw this letter away right after you read it, I hope you realize that each word I wrote came straight from my heart, and I hope that maybe that comforts you.
It was going to be anonymous. I felt like it seemed more sincere that way, like I wasn’t just writing it to be a part of the hype. It was going to be handwritted, the tear smudged words burning my feelings into their hearts. I had so many plans for the letter but as I sat down to write it I forgot all of them and just poured out my soul onto that piece of paper.
I want you to know that you’re in all of our thoughts and prayers- maybe this will give you hope and strengthing your faith. People all over the world are starting movements and taking on personal challenges in honor of your son. He won’t be forgotten.
I finished the letter. It was anonymous yes, but surprisingly there were no tearstains. I realized that I didn’t need to cry on the paper to show that I cared. It was there in my words. Deep down inside I knew they would understand that.
Thanks for reading this letter. I hope it gives you some comfort.
Now, as I’m standing outside the house I know that even though I don’t know what its like to lose a son, or a friend, it was ok for me to leave this letter. For while its true that I can’t empathize with the parents, the classmates or the driver of the van, I can still show my support for them. I think that’s what they need more than anything: People with strong shoulders to cry on, people who they can share priceless memories of the boys with, people who can look them straight in the eye and tell them that they’re there for them no matter what. I want to be that person. With that thought, I walk up the front steps and hand the letter to a man dressed in black with red rimmed eyes, who was walking into the house and tell him to give it to the family. He nods absentmindedly and walks through the front door.
I may not be able to change the past, but maybe I can help illuminate the future.
I turn and walk away. I’ve done my part.
Sincerely,
A friend.
A Collection of Random Writings 