Thursday afternoon, traffic was crazy. I assumed it was because President Obama had been in Buffalo and that perhaps the traffic was still slow. I had a 45 minute drive home that would normally only take 20 minutes. I started dinner a bit later, timing it so it would be ready for my husband when he got home from work. I got a phone call around twenty after six. It was my husband. "I had to get off the thruway. There was an alert up and I saw traffic ahead at a complete standstill. Fortunately, I got off in time, but it's going to take me a bit longer to get home. I guess Obama wanted to go to Mighty Taco," he joked.
On Saturday, as we walked to get coffee together, Nate said to me, "Oh, by the way, I found out what that traffic was all about on Thursday." "What was it?" I asked. "A 12-year-old was riding his bike to football practice. He rode out into the street as the turn signal went on. A car driving into the intersection ran him over. I mean, it was his fault... no drugs, alcohol, or cell phone use... and about 10 people helped roll the car off of him, but... it was too late. It was just a terrible accident."
I don't know what happened inside, but I just felt this overwhelming sadness. Here I was, walking with my husband, breathing air, and enjoying the sunshine... and a child who had not yet even begun to live was killed. Life was going on, and I knew parents, schoolmates and friends were grieving. Who was I to ever complain about life when it's so fragile? I later found out that my uncle had this young boy as a student at Hoover Middle School. My uncle elaborated, "He was conscious and calling for help. His leg was badly broken at the knee. He was able to tell the police his name and address. I'm guessing he just died from internal injuries. He was a good kid... popular. The start of this school year is going to be rough."
I then thought about a 13-year-old girl named Erin who lived down the street from my parents. A couple of years ago, she and two friends were playing on a school playground. They had all just celebrated their 8th grade graduation the evening before. Erin had a lead part in a dance recital the next day. On their way home from the playground, the girls ran into the median of a busy street. A car stopped to wave them on. A woman driving a jeep didn't know why this car had suddenly stopped and quickly drove into the outside lane to avoid slamming into it. Two of the girls were hit by the jeep. Erin would not dance in that recital... she was killed. The roadside memorial is still on the corner of my parent's street. Again, just a terrible accident.
When I was 8 years old, there was a boy named Benjamin. He was a year younger than me and a student in the classroom next to mine. He needed to have open heart surgery. My mom explained to me, "Before the doctors put him to sleep, he told his mom and dad 'don't worry!' But he was much sicker than the doctors thought. He died while in surgery." I remembered who he was back then, and can still picture his face today. Even as an 8-year-old, I cried for him and I cried for his parents. He was a little kid, consoling his parents before his passing. It was just so sad.
In bringing this all together, I am 30-years-old. I am sitting in my living room, typing on my laptop. My husband is sitting across the room typing away on his. It is a beautiful Sunday evening. Peeking through the window blinds, I can see the sun setting through a tree in our yard. Beautiful. I am alive. I don't understand the big picture and why I am alive while innocent children have to die. But what I do know is that I have control over what I do with whatever time I have left here, by how I treat people, by my actions and by trying to live each moment as if it were my last. 
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