The smoke twisted and turned across the sky in a fluffy white cotton candy stream. I didn’t know what it was supposed to look like – should it look like this? I looked to my teacher’s eyes and I knew – something was wrong. The Challenger was broken.
But there I sat among the neat rows of 4th graders, in our Crayola-colored chairs, waiting for the explanation.
Angie is the voice of childhood. She remembers the details, the feelings, the sounds and the smells. Here she puts what we lost on Friday in Newtown into context. Beautifully.
