July 15

On Monday I wrote on Facebook that I voted for a peaceful week.

Last night, along with shock, worry.

How did all those thousands of people get home?

Where were their cars? Parked on side streets?

Imagine having a baby in a stroller and an eight-year-old,

maybe your mother-in-law with you, trying to get away from the chaos.

Or worse. Trying to find out what happened to the child, parent, friend

who’s missing? Or worse. What must be done if they were hit?

Were all the children crying?

Let’s say there’s a teenage girl, let’s call her Juliette

with her first serious boyfriend, Léo,

and they need to get back to their village nine miles from Nice. 

They were on the Promenade holding hands, kissing now and then, 

until they were caught up in the surge of terrified people 

running away, any which way, as far from the truck as they could get.  

Then Juliette and Léo jumped down to the beach. But once there, 

they didn’t know what to do next. Where were the friends they’d met, 

sat with during the show and left behind because they wanted to be alone, 

as young lovers always want at some point during a special night out? 

What about today? Which person is home today caring for a fretful 
toddler, preparing supper, or on the phone trying to get news 
about parents, who, on their 25th anniversary, 
had done the thing they'd wanted to do since they were young lovers,
made the journey to the south of France to see 
the fireworks soar over the Mediterranean on le 14 juillet?