Sometimes, Wall goes months without crying.
It’s in these interludes, the quiet spaces, when she looks strongest but struggles most. It’s in these voids, the silences, when she has felt âdead inside.â She’s tried to shake the emotions loose, ordering them forth, issuing a thousand little, unheeded commands.
But her tears have refused. They’re usually as stubborn as she is.
On her drive into town Sunday morning, she glanced down at the date illuminated on her car’s dashboard and her heart lurched âÂ Nov. 4, it said. Nov. 4, it screamed.
One year, she thought. One year since she last saw her Sara, her “Nanny,” alive. One year and one day since a gunman took her and Dennis, “Pa,” from the world, and rewrote her family’s story forever.
The next thing she knew, she was back home,Â crying. Wrapped in her husband Jasonâs big arms, her sons safely in the next roomÂ and surrounded by the dogs and kitten she’d rescued, she knew that was the only place she needed to be that day.Â
Since the shooting, Wall has written more chapters than many people put to paper in a lifetime.Â
She buried her parents and became the executor to their estates. She’s gotten counseling and turned to her own “eclectic” spirituality to find solace. She left her teaching job, triggered by the live shooter drills and one actual shooting scare, and started putting her thoughts to paper.Â