The flag at my daughter’s school flew at half mast today. A third victim of Saturday morning’s horrible house fire was a 12 year-old boy from her school, whose parents also perished.

When something happens in a small town, I think you have maybe a 50/50 chance of it affecting you in some personal way, however indirectly.
It’s been almost a decade since I moved from a big city, where bad things generally happened to someone else and tomorrow’s tragedy would surely involve other faceless people. And even when certain events caused me to react with sadness, anger or pity, life went on pretty much the same. The community I lived in – never mind the world – seemed so big that chances were slim misfortune would hit close to home. I felt fearless . . . it was all so much noise in the background of my life.

It’s different now, here.
When I walked downtown this afternoon I was surprised to see the number of people at tables in my favourite bakery. More than usual for that time of day. Among them were two women I’m friends with and see infrequently. We’ll wave if we pass each other in town, maybe exchange a quick word, and go on about our business. Today, instead of grabbing a to-go and my bread, I sat down and had coffee with them and was introduced to another woman they were with. All of them resided very close to the house that was destroyed – one lived right next door, but none knew these neighbours more than casually. Amid discussions of the weekend’s fire, we made plans to get together later this week, exchanged numbers.

When tragic events happen in a small community, people have a tendency to congregate. There’s a real need to be among others because aside from curiosity, we all have feelings and grief to work through . . . it could so easily have been any one of us, and we regret that we never knew these people better. And so we reach out.

Later this afternoon, my daughter handed me a parent’s letter she’d been given at school to take home, and said that something bad happened to a boy at school and could I tell her about it. The primary grade children were not informed of the student’s death by their teachers, but youngsters are keenly aware of when things are not quite right with their little world.

Today, I learned that tragedy never strikes someone else.
Because it happened to the woman who worked at the donut shop where my husband buys his coffee.
Because it happened to her youngest son, who attended the same school as my child.
Because it happened to the family who lived next door to my friend.

And because this happened, I became a little closer to some people I know, and met another neighbour.
I sat down with my five year-old, and we had our first discussion about death and dying.

Today, I was reminded that home isn’t a house. It’s where you live and who you live with, and it stretches farther than you realize, because we are all connected.