Editorial August 14, 1995 Issue

Things that are forever

Mary Metzner Trammell

On the surface, everything looked the same in the little cafe that morning. Sunshine poured in the large streetside windows like it usually does. The art and music students huddled around the tables like they usually do. But something was different. The happy, hectic atmosphere was gone. The classical music was turned down low. People spoke in hushed tones. The place was eerily quiet.

Finally, someone told me what had happened. A few hours earlier, there had been a traffic accident nearby. And one of the students, a quiet young man who was everybody's friend, had been killed.

I didn't know this young man's name, but I'd spoken to him often around the neighborhood, as everyone did, and felt he was my friend too. So I stayed at the cafe an extra long time that Saturday morning to sort it all out—and to pray.

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