Lost After Launching

I was in my classroom at my desk. We could have been eating lunch, in class, or just returning from recess, I don't remember. The fifth grade teacher was in the hallway crying. This woman who was part of my future, more "grown up," world was crying. She spoke to another teacher and I saw her eyes were red, too. Suddenly, as my teacher joined the hushed conversation, there seemed to be an epidemic of sorts - the adults in the small building were all distraught, whispering to each other in the protective world of the school's hallway while we, the children, the fragile, the ones who cried daily, sat speechless and wondering.

Teachers aren't supposed to cry. That's what I believed when I was nine years old.

My mind swirled not about why they were crying, but first about how. I thought about what it meant that in these short minutes that passed that we were the strong ones. I thought about what power could have swept them all away from us so uniformly - the lay teachers, the nuns, the parent volunteers - all those we were taught to run to in an emergency looked as though they needed someone to run to now. Who is left?

My teacher wiped her eyes, but her Irish decent betrayed her. She was red, her eyes puffy and her make-up was a mess. I didn't want her to tell us. I didn't want to be another casualty of this conversation. I steadied myself, told myself I wouldn't cry, told myself I'd be strong, and I told myself I didn't even have to care if I didn't want to.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there was a terrible accident. We all need to pray for the families of all of the astronauts on the Challenger..." The rest is a blur, until I reached home and saw that my father, another teacher was crying as well, along with my mother.

I didn't cry that day. I prayed. A lot. Not just for the families of the astronauts, but for the astronauts as well. I prayed for a miracle. I prayed for what was supposed to be. I prayed to understand.

On January 28, 1986, my teachers cried, a dream died and a hero of mine was lost 73 seconds into her great adventure. It was the first time I learned that not everything in this world makes sense. It was the first time I realized that even being an adult didn't mean that it would.

I didn't cry that day, but I've cried so many times about it since. Even today when seeing a picture of a perfectly successful launch I still can think of nothing else besides Christa McAuliffe, the woman I wanted to be.

Write on Edge had a Surprise Prompt today and I just happened to stumble over it. Here are the details: 
Take a look at the photo below and write. Don’t think too hard, just write what comes. Fiction or non-fiction. Don’t spend too long. Have fun!