Even from the outset, it was no ordinary day.
I remember sitting at a stoplight that morning on my way to my office on the campus of Virginia Tech and thinking that I wasn’t sure I had ever seen snow—mid-April snow, no less—being blown horizontally. It didn’t appear to be falling even, just sweeping across the landscape, scouring the newly green earth. Of course, within just a few short hours, other unlikely events would come to pass, events far more significant than a late spring snow. I did not know that then. I wish I did not know that now.
Five years have passed and today many are remembering that same morning in their own ways. Some will remember communally. Thou-sands will run 3.2 miles in remembrance of the 32 lives lost. There is solace here that comes from sharing grief with others who have felt it. There will be hugs. There will be candles. And there will be tears.
But many of us—and I count myself among that number—will remember that morning privately. Here are some things I remember.
I remember the way that same wind blew for days without ceasing, a bitter breeze that made every moment feel urgent and heightened every emotion. A wind so constant that when it finally stopped, it seemed just as loud in its absence.
I remember the swarms of people—the press, the police, university administrators, students, parents, gawkers—descending on the Inn at Virginia Tech like attendees at some grim carnival. Among that number were the parents, colleagues, and friends of those that were lost—dumbstruck with grief, wandering the corridors, marked by blank and impenetrable stares.
I remember the constant hum of the war room, our makeshift communications center in the midst of the crisis. The televisions blaring with incessant coverage. The knots of state police, FBI, and university officials, huddled in corners. The phones clattering endlessly as journalists, alumni, and ordinary people from around the world called in seeking answers. Those of us whose job was to provide those answers pounded on our laptops, crafting responses, sharing them with those who were cradling phones between chin and shoulder, trying their best to respond to all the questions, and I remember the frustration that we all felt as we faced the fact that there was so much—so very, very much—that we did not know and could not explain.
I remember slipping into a conference room at the Inn, seeking out a senior administrator to prepare her for an interview with Oprah. At the moment I stepped in, the president of the university, the superintendent of the state police, representatives of the FBI, and the county coroner were trying to explain to a room full of devastated loved ones why they could not yet claim—could not yet even see—the bodies of those they lost, and I remember how I knew that moment would be burned indelibly into my consciousness, that I would never escape its import.
And I remember joining a crowd of Hokies on the Drillfield a week later, as representatives from the Student Government Association released a single balloon—one at a time—for each life lost. 32 balloons, each climbing skyward so slowly it seemed reluctant to leave the earth. Thousands of us watched, struck silent by profound grief.
Close your eyes now. Count to 32. Go slowly. Pause after each number, and imagine a life lost for each number you count. Imagine the vacuum that each of those lives left behind.
There. That’s the size of our loss. That’s the scope of our grief.
This year, for the first time since 2007, April 16th came and went in a way that was not terribly unlike the days before and after it. Perhaps this says something about the power of distance. Central Maine, where I now live, is a very long way from Southwest Virginia. Or perhaps this says something about the power of time. Five years is, in some ways, an eternity. I’m reminded of that every time I look at pictures of my kids from that year.
Or maybe—just maybe—it says something about the kind of practiced and willful ignorance I’ve cultivated when it comes to this anniversary. I make it a point to steer clear of social media all day. I curb my usual appetite for news. And each time I open my email,
I quickly skim the “From” line so I won’t be surprised by a missive that takes me to a place I’d really prefer not to go.
Of course all of this is little more than trickery—a sort of mental sleight-of-hand that allows me to keep my focus from resting too long on that which I don’t really want to see. But in the end, it feels as though I’m standing with my nose pressed against some tremendous granite monolith, so large that it fills my entire field of vision and makes it impossible for me to see what’s beyond it.
Still, with each passing year, I manage to take a step back. And then another. And another. And this year, maybe for the first time, I’m con-vinced that I can finally see some light bleeding along the edges.
Michael Kiser became vice president for communications at Colby College in September 2011. He was director of development communications at Virginia Tech on April 16, 2007, when 32 people were killed in the deadliest shooting by a single gunman in U.S. history.
Read Kiser’s writing at One Lucky Man: http://oneluckyman.wordpress.com