Safe

Last week there were several shooting incidents near a school in Boston where I work. All of them happened between 1 and 4 in the afternoon, times when our kids are often outside, coming or going to the playground. I sat in an emergency staff meeting in which my coworkers who live in the school's neighborhood described how and where they hide with their children when they hear shots at home. How the TV has been moved from the front room to the back room, so that there is less of a chance of being hit by a bullet coming from the street. How there were posters hanging around the neighborhood with a picture of a rat and a line through a tongue. In other words, you've been warned -- don't talk to the cops.

Two hours later, I sat in a park near my home, twenty-five miles from where the shootings happened. I watched as my son played baseball with the other six and seven-year-olds. I couldn't help but notice how my shoulders ached and finally realized it was from the effort of holding them too high, that I had spent the day ready to run. I watched as these kids kicked stones in the outfield, danced around second base with their backs to the plate despite their coaches gently pleading with them to pay attention.

I thought about how they felt safe enough to day dream out there. Carefree enough to be bored, and bored enough for the right fielder (my boy) to stand with arms crossed and his mitt on his head like a hat.