Tragedy, spiraling out of control.

Eight years ago this week, I interviewed one of the students in the middle of the Columbine disaster for the newspaper at which I was working. She had been childhood friends with Dylan Klebold. And in turn, had been one of the students thrust into the janitor's closet, praying that the door didn't open to his face accompanied by a loaded gun.

I also spoke with her mother, who hammered home the fear of losing your child, of not knowing which way is up, of being so helplessly stranded as a spectator in which the game could be deadly for that which is most importatnt to you.

I have never recovered from that interview. It was impossible to completely absorb or comprehend what the student and her mother told me that day. My mind simply could not wrap itself around any of it- and I was left with a sense of horror personified by this girl.

Yesterday, it happened again. And this time, I am only a member of the public. For which I am grateful. I don't know if I could go through discussing something like that again.

And in turn, I am ashamed. It was not me that was shot. It was not a friend. It was not my child. Like many others, I have connections to students at V-Tech, but nothing that should make me feel victimized. But I do. And I am embarassed that I feel such. The despair that so many parents are feeling right now; the emotions of those that survived. These should be at the forefront today.

But in truth, we are all victims. On NPR this morning, a reporter who had also interviewed Columbine victims had heard one particularly striking comment this week, eight years ago. A woman, bringing an offering to a make-shift shrine, commented that it was sad that we as a country knew what to bring to this occasion. And this stuck me, like nothing else. We do know what to bring. Right now, there are piles of flowers, teddy bears, cards, and more scattered around Virginia Tech. There are religious services, counseling, and candlelight vigils. Because in one form or another, we've all been through this before, and we know the drill.

What frightens me the most is that we'll all go through this again. We'll all know the emotions, the symbols, and the words to bring. And even worse, we'll bring the knowledge that it still won't be the last. And there's nothing I can do, or write, or say, that will stop this. We can only wonder, and hope, and pray, that it won't be us, or our children, or our friends.