I arrived at the Jewish Community Center early this morning to find a note tacked to the outer door: “The JCC mourns the tragic loss of members of the Krim family. Our prayers are with them at this difficult time.” Though the language of loss is inadequate, these words were softer than the painful video loops and prying reporters on local broadcast news, all eager to get their stories and beat the competition. Who will gather the most salacious details?
I flashed my card to the security guard and walked through the cavernous lobby, not a stroller in sight, no nannies, no children running around, no parents. Mrs. Krim had been at the JCC pool with her three-year-old daughter when her two other children--a baby boy and her eldest daughter-- were killed.
Saturday morning is usually a busy time at the pool, but today it was nearly empty; I had a lane to myself. It was as though the whole neighborhood had been silenced and traumatized.
I swam for the Krims. I swam for the nanny’s teenaged son now bereft of his mother.
Who can account for such things? Not a writer. Not anyone.
I flashed my card to the security guard and walked through the cavernous lobby, not a stroller in sight, no nannies, no children running around, no parents. Mrs. Krim had been at the JCC pool with her three-year-old daughter when her two other children--a baby boy and her eldest daughter-- were killed.
Saturday morning is usually a busy time at the pool, but today it was nearly empty; I had a lane to myself. It was as though the whole neighborhood had been silenced and traumatized.
I swam for the Krims. I swam for the nanny’s teenaged son now bereft of his mother.
Who can account for such things? Not a writer. Not anyone.