The 20th anniversary was yesterday. But it was not a time of celebration. It's a time of mourning, again.
20 years ago I was living between two small towns in Kentucky. I was 7, almost 8. I was too young to completely understand the impact it had on people in my small intimate community. But I do have specific memories.
My dad, the news editor of the local newspaper, was called after midnight to return to work. He speaks little of the coverage and the reporting of this tragedy (at least to me), but I know it impacted him. He still has the newspaper from that day and ones following.
I remember months after the tragedy riding my school bus with a survivor day after day. I remember seeing other survivors on the steps of the middle school we passed. There was no missing them. They were scarred, healing, and their eyes told such stories.
I remember watching the news coverage of the trial of the drunk driver. I was only 8 when he stood trial, but I vividly remember sitting beside my aunts as the court scenes were broadcast on the television in my grandparents' home.
I remember passing the memorial day after day sometimes seeing people there remembering the ones who passed away.
Even though my memories are hazy and the impact was minor on my life, I still remember. But today I pray. I pray for each family impacted in major ways. I pray for the friends of the victims. Most of all I pray for the survivors who continue to remember that night.