It was 8am on a Monday when a little girl walked
Into her 2nd grade classroom
Excited to show her friends her new pink skirt
And light up shoes her grandmother had gotten her
For her birthday just the day before.
She unloaded her lunchbox and took out her purple stuffed animal,
His name was puddles,
And placed him carefully beside her backpack.
She couldn't wait to tell her classmates about him during show and tell.
By 11am, the room smelled of crayons and glue sticks
As she worked on an art project due by the end of the day.
At 12:05, she sat cross-legged on the carpet,
Puddles tucked under her arm,
Surrounded by other second graders who still believed
That school was a safe place to be.
But time does thus cruel thing where it keeps going
Even though it shouldn't.
The clock on the wall didn't know that it was about to become
Nothing but a before and after.
It kept ticking like it always does,
Loud enough to be annoying,
But quiet enough to be ignored.
The sounds in the hallway changed.
There was no more laughter
Or sounds of little sneakers,
But the sounds of things most adults will be considered lucky
To never have to hear in their lifetime.
Lunch boxes will fall to the ground,
Desks will be pressed to the door,
And little hands meant for crayons and glue sticks
Will be pressed to little ears.
Puddles fell to the floor,
Now covered in a darkness that was once a child's innocence.
And that is where he will stay.
Later, someone will find a purple stuffed animal
On the classroom floor,
One light up shoe still blinking blue,
And glue sticks still left uncapped.
We will talk about this in numbers and headlines
And debates that last longer than 2nd grade attention spans.
And somewhere, a grandmother will stare
At a receipt for shoes that were supposed
To light up hallways,
Not memorials.
And a stuffed animal will never make it to show and tell.
Tomorrow, the desks will still be there,
The bell will still ring,
And another class will sit on the carpet.
They will add drills to the schedule
And lock the doors a little tighter.
Children will learn how to hide
Before they learn how to tell time.
And we will call this normal.
Just another tragedy you see on the news.
But it is not normal for grandmothers
To bury grandchildren.
And it is not normal for stuffed animals
To outlive the children who love them.
How many light up shoes have to stop blinking
Before we understand that time didn't fail that little girl.
We did
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 9:27 PM UTC
It was 8am on a Monday when a little girl walked
Into her 2nd grade classroom
Excited to show her friends her new pink skirt
And light up shoes her grandmother had gotten her
For her birthday just the day before.
She unloaded her lunchbox and took out her purple stuffed animal,
His name was puddles,
And placed him carefully beside her backpack.
She couldn't wait to tell her classmates about him during show and tell.
By 11am, the room smelled of crayons and glue sticks
As she worked on an art project due by the end of the day.
At 12:05, she sat cross-legged on the carpet,
Puddles tucked under her arm,
Surrounded by other second graders who still believed
That school was a safe place to be.
But time does thus cruel thing where it keeps going
Even though it shouldn't.
The clock on the wall didn't know that it was about to become
Nothing but a before and after.
It kept ticking like it always does,
Loud enough to be annoying,
But quiet enough to be ignored.
The sounds in the hallway changed.
There was no more laughter
Or sounds of little sneakers,
But the sounds of things most adults will be considered lucky
To never have to hear in their lifetime.
Lunch boxes will fall to the ground,
Desks will be pressed to the door,
And little hands meant for crayons and glue sticks
Will be pressed to little ears.
Puddles fell to the floor,
Now covered in a darkness that was once a child's innocence.
And that is where he will stay.
Later, someone will find a purple stuffed animal
On the classroom floor,
One light up shoe still blinking blue,
And glue sticks still left uncapped.
We will talk about this in numbers and headlines
And debates that last longer than 2nd grade attention spans.
And somewhere, a grandmother will stare
At a receipt for shoes that were supposed
To light up hallways,
Not memorials.
And a stuffed animal will never make it to show and tell.
Tomorrow, the desks will still be there,
The bell will still ring,
And another class will sit on the carpet.
They will add drills to the schedule
And lock the doors a little tighter.
Children will learn how to hide
Before they learn how to tell time.
And we will call this normal.
Just another tragedy you see on the news.
But it is not normal for grandmothers
To bury grandchildren.
And it is not normal for stuffed animals
To outlive the children who love them.
How many light up shoes have to stop blinking
Before we understand that time didn't fail that little girl.
We did
Written for/about Mary who will always be my little sister but is now living a better life up in the sky.
