ArcaMax

The victims of the shooting could have been at the table next to us at Olive Garden. Or, it could have been the shooters. It's hard to know.

The table had a group of young men, perhaps in their late teens or early 20s, wearing their grown bodies like oversized coats inherited from their fathers. My son and I shared the wall-length booth with one side of the group, so when I would turn to speak to him, their boyish movements mirrored those of my son.

They spoke about Christmas evenings and the different traditions they had in their various families when they still believed. One caught my eye as I enjoyed their youth, only partially listening in, but more musing about what my son might be at their age. I hoped he and his friends would be like them, pooling their money to celebrate their friend's birthday at a chain restaurant, to that friend's chagrin when the waiters sang.

The boy I connected with took a brief look at my son, looked back at me, shushed his friends, and gave a slightly theatric treatise on Santa. It sounded like the boy in him didn't want to take away the magic from the other, younger boy on the bench. I smiled at them and my son. He asked why. I replied, "I see the boys they were."

Last Friday, three boys, a 16-year-old, a 17-year-old, and a 19-year-old were shot in my town. And while you might argue that the 19-year-old was a man, his mother and family will likely recall the soft moments of childhood magic they had with their boy, much like the two other grieving families will.

Those memories will also echo at the family tables of those currently arrested: a 20-year-old, two 17-year-olds, and one 15-year-old.

The city's first press conference on the shooting overlapped with my son's first day of the little league soccer meetups. Another parent recognized me; they were city staff, and our kids would be playing together for this season. He asked me why I was in all black. He grimaced when I reminded him.

All of us, parents together broiling under the sun, watched our kids bounce around each other in that eager dance of friendship. Would those same kids be holding guns with lights to film each other doing donuts with their cars in a parking lot in about 10 years? Would a flash of anger lead to tragedy?

It's hard to know.

We don't know what tables our children will sit at as they age. Some will gather in restaurants like this, splitting appetizers and jokes, their biggest concern the embarrassment of a birthday song. Others will sit in school cafeterias where the lunch is free, but the hunger isn't just for food. Some will find themselves at tables in locked rooms, answering questions with their hands folded in front of them, wishing they had been given different choices before those doors shut behind them.

The difference between those tables is not just parenting and not just personal choices. It is policy. It is which neighborhoods get well-funded schools and which ones get police patrols. It's whether after-school programs are available or the only gathering place after dark is a parking lot. It's whether a mistake at 15 means a second chance or a removal from our society to hide our failures.

A fellow city council member reached out while I was still on the field. I told her it felt weird to be here, but I thought we also had to stay living for a future we could help create.

We can't say that our city hasn't changed, and we can't say our country hasn't changed either. Maybe we've always been this hateful, but we haven't always externalized it in the same way. The difference is that now, it leaves bodies behind, and that we know.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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