Tell Me. I Want To Know.

On this day 11 years ago, terrorists ripped a gash through our nation as they killed innocents in New York City, in a Pennsylvania farm field and at the Pentagon.  Four months and a week ago, a mentally ill gunman ripped a gash in our family when he shot and killed Candy Squared. 

Collectively, we heal from tragedy. On this September 11, new construction continues at New York City's Ground Zero and news reports indicate that fewer survivors feel the need to return for a public mourning of their loss.

In our home, where our violence is still fresh, we share memories of Candy Squared. We laugh about her scatter-brained forgetfulness and remember her zest. This is a woman who once doubled the length of a six-hour trip when she left her wallet at a convenience store after filling her car with gas. She is the priest who baptized Birdie and the aunt who came to Daisy's fifth birthday party dressed as a princess. She is the sister who first learned her little brother met a girl he really liked--that being how she became my sister-in-law. So even as Big Guy struggles to sort through the pottery, china and bits and pieces of Candy Squared's life, we heal.

In my healing, I find room to think about the family left behind by Candy Squared's killer Douglas Franklin. Big Guy and I met them in June. We stood in their side yard. We spoke with Douglas Franklin's brother and his wife. She cried when she learned who we were. We shook hands with Douglas Franklin's nephew as he held a toddler son in his arms.

I saw for myself that these are good people. They work hard. They are poor. They do not understand what happened anymore than I do. They live in tragedy's shadow--on the bottom floor of a white-framed house owned by the church where Candy Squared and another woman died. The house sits catty-corner across the parking lot from the church. They knew both women.

They told us about their Douglas Franklin: A man who loved his brother; a man who fished; a great-uncle who dubbed his toddler-great nephew "Pork Chop." They have those memories, but a bewildering numbness possesses them in this first summer of grief. The brother confessed his fear that the madness that gripped Douglas Franklin might run through the family. They knew Douglas Franklin was ill; they didn't know he was dangerous. In their new reality, the brother tells his wife: You let me know if you see me acting odd.  I want to know if I'm going crazy.

That takes me back to the terrorists: The large bunch of them that struck on Sept. 11, 2001. That day might have been slipped by in anonymity, if even one had said to his loved one, "Tell me if I'm going crazy. I want to know." And that loved one had known what to do about it.

Beneath its layer of civility, our world has a rawness. Differences breed fanaticism, mental illness exists, tempers boil, guns are cheap and unforgiveness festers. Please, loved ones, tell me if I'm going crazy, if you see a hatred consuming my soul. I want to know. And then, loved ones, help me figure out how to regain my humanity.