Any hopes that I had entertained that A was hanging tough were dashed the minute I watched all those present walk through the receiving line. Some she shook hands with. Some she gave a barely perceptible nod. Those she knew she just hung on to and cried. I was told that at the hospital she was running through the hospital, laughing and playing. I hoped that she would maintain that misunderstanding, shield herself from the grief that comes from losing a parent.

I walked up to her, trying to compose myself from a disheveled crying girl into her teacher. I was mildly successful. I pulled her into a big embrace and held on to her, feeling the solidity of her sorrow. "Everything will be all right," I whispered to her, "I promise you that." In retrospect it was probably a silly thing to say, but I wanted her to hear some good words in between all those "I'm so sorry's" Offer whatever little comfort I could.

I moved to her brother, the default man of the family. "Alex. You made it," he said. "Of course I did. Give me a hug." He just kept muttering how I had made it and thanking me for it. "I was worried about you. Are you okay?" I asked. He said he was okay, but I don't know that I would expect a 13 year old to tell me anything different.

Walking out of there, I wish that I had more time with those kids. I think part of being a teacher is wanting to teach them how to be self sufficient, simply put - how to make everything okay for themselves. When they are unable to do it alone, I want to make it okay for them. I wish I could be more for them right now.