Charlotte. Daniel. Olivia. Josephine. Ana. Dylan. Madeleine. Catherine. Chase. Jesse. James. Grace. Emilie. Jack. Noah. Caroline. Jessica. Avielle. Benjamin. Allison.

I really wasn’t sure what to write this week, or whether i should even write at all. It didn’t seem right to post about triviality. I also don’t feel right posting about Newtown; I’ve no weight to give here, and it’s not my place to.

I keep going from envisaging every split second of Friday’s events in my head, to just switching it off entirely. I really don’t care to learn any more about it. I’m dismally sickened by the reporting and drama and reactions. This is a highly personal catastrophe, and I have no place in the mourning and recovery of those involved. They deserve peace, and time alone, with their family. They don’t want us. I know I wouldn’t.

And that’s what takes me back in: I can’t help seeing my own son in that same situation. That little person who is your entire reason to live.

I’m not really certain what the killer’s name was, and I really don’t want to. His name doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter to anyone. My name doesn’t matter to the children’s parents; they couldn’t care less who I, or any of us, are.

There are twenty names at the top of this, and each of them mattered to someone, a lot.

Rachel. Dawn. Nancy. Anne Marie. Lauren Mary. Victoria.

They mattered too.