I hid a pair of shoes.

They were hand-me-downs.  Very cute.  My youngest already loved them, even though they didn’t really fit. 

I felt a little bad.  She has so many shoes though, and won’t even notice these are gone.

But I will notice, and I will breathe deeper once I don’t have to look at them.  I’m not ready. 

Last week I looked in a paper bag.  Two pairs of shoes and a blankie. The pattern on that blanket matches the pattern of jammies my daughter slept in last night.  It's one of the mass produced but adorable ones we all have.  It felt like a punch in the gut. 

The shoes in the bag.  One pair belonged to little feet that will never run again.  And one pair to a big sister who will probably never forget what she heard and saw that day.  A family destroyed.  A driver’s life ruined.  So many people devastated. 

I stayed away from the scene all shift so I didn’t have to see.  Another team handled it, and handled it well.   I thought I’d be fine.  But I saw that bag at the station and I looked inside and that was enough.  I came home and went in my daughter’s room and picked up those shoes and tucked them away in a closet until I can look at them again.  And I climbed into bed and my husband held me until I could breathe again.

And today I decided not to hide the jammies, because my oldest and my niece wore them too.  And you can't hide it all away.