I drive away from what was the Tappan Zee bridge and is now a different bridge. The first bridge slowly wound low across the river. Now demolished, replaced.

I drive past Sandy Hook. I’m only on the highway, but I remember the children. I hadn’t heard of the school or even the town until that day. I remember all that we didn’t do and don’t.

At our friends’ home, we swim, laugh, and eat together. The stars are hidden behind the clouds, but we are here, visible, wet and full.

The children spray water guns, I insist, not shoot. What can we change, control? They imagine the pool floats are ships, destroyed by pirates. They are lost, needing another boat, a map, dry land.

They pretend the couch inside is their new home. They are safe in the basement dark, hiding their map under a blanket.

Their play is a movie-in-making. The desire to record, remember. And edit into a narrative we can follow.