Our children don't die of tuberculosis or malaria or dysentery; they don't starve in front of our hopeless eyes in the dirt of refugee camps; they aren't blown up in buses, or vaporized in air strikes; they don't die from infected rat bites from scavenging in dumps; they don't freeze in the night in the ruins of earthquake flattened cities.
But the hand of random evil can still reach down at any time, and snatch away the ones who are far more precious to us than our own lives, and there isn't any prevention, any care, any attentiveness that can keep them safe. All we can do is weep, and rage, and fling our blazing spears of blame. And hold our children close despite their impatient protests, to reassure ourselves that, this time, it wasn't us.
Every living thing is born, I tell my children, and every living thing dies. Please, absent god or hand of fate or karmic wheel or anything to which I may appeal, please please please, let me die before my children.
20 Children Killed at Connecticut School