Six years ago tonight I shut down my phone and took a last look around my apartment. Six years ago tonight I tried to decide what to grab and try to stuff into the carry-on I was allowed to leave with.
Six years ago today the gunfire was so loud and so close I thought “they” were hunting us. Six years ago today I lay under a table in the dining hall my arms linked with two former students who were now staff. Six years ago today I watched the tracer bullets fly by the window in both directions, but mostly from East to West.
Six years ago today I could hear the gunfire when I walked out of my bedroom. Six years ago today I went to my classroom to teach my classes for the last time.
Six years ago today my phone rang much too early in the morning. Six years ago today my friend and colleague was calling to tell me she wouldn’t be coming to school today—she thought we were having a coup.