Memorial: Place of peace

By James B. Meadow, Rocky Mountain News (Contact)

Published April 19, 2008 at 12:09 a.m.

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A cool breeze cleaves the morning, a morning filled with promise, a morning just like all the other 3,287 mornings that have come since the morning that was black and bloody and like no other. The morning that tore away 13 lives and collective innocence in a horrible swath of violence and hate.

But just as a forest can slowly regenerate itself after a conflagration, nine years after the epic tragedy at Columbine High School, the healing of hearts and souls is alive and well at the Columbine Memorial in Clement Park.

Part brick, part granite, part cascading water, part trees, part crucible, part sanctuary, the memorial - dedicated last September - consists of an inner Ring of Remembrance and an outer Ring of Healing and within its embrace "it feels good to come and be able to feel peace in this place and to remember . . . them in the silence."

At least that's how Kathy O'Dell feels. She is 49 and, although she lives nearby, is making her first visit, finally able to come and "lift my prayers to the children and their parents."

O'Dell didn't know any of the victims, but Elisa Zahn did. She was a sophomore at Columbine, she was there. On the morning. Today she is a 24-year-old woman who is back home in Littleton to get ready for her May wedding. Her eyes are wet behind her sunglasses as she looks down and remembers the dead who aren't just names to her.

"I was closest to Lauren (Townsend). I played volleyball with her; she was my role model. It was hard for me to read hers."

Zahn means the inscription under Townsend's name in the Ring of Remembrance. The words pressed into granite come from her diary, words that tumble from the heart of an 18-year-old girl. Words like: "I do think humanity is losing touch with itself and their relationship with their surroundings. Unfortunately it usually takes a huge trauma to get people to realize what is important and I feel that is what is going to happen to wake up everyone to get in touch with their spiritual sides. I am not afraid of death for it is only a transition"

Lauren, Daniel, Kyle . . .

Next to Lauren's name, next to the name of all the victims, is a single, long-stemmed white rose. The petals of the roses flutter in the wind and the stems begin to cast shadows as the sun rises. They look like fingers marking individual pages of a granite book.

On one page, there is Daniel Mauser, "a boy with a gentle spirit and a shy grin . . . He still saw the world through largely innocent eyes." On another is Cassie Bernall, who had an "engaging laugh, beautiful long blonde hair, clear blue eyes and a big warm smile that she generously shared."

Still another page is reserved for Kyle Velasquez, who was "just beginning to spread his wings," who was "just beginning to really like who he was"; for whom the "world around him was beginning to open up . . . ."

The pages go around in a circle, each different, each the same, all but one telling of young people killed just as their potential began to simmer. The one victim who outlived his youth was William "Dave" Sanders, 47, a teacher who "inspired many people to achieve their dreams" and whose "spirit lives on in everyone who loved him or knew him."

Janice Roberts, 46, didn't know Sanders. Or anybody else within the ring. She isn't even from Colorado. She lives in a small Minnesota town with her husband Anthony and 12-year-old daughter Abby and is visiting cousins in Littleton. Still, as she reads the pages she holds an open palm to her cheek. Her eyes are not dry.

"This is something people should see," she says. "It's honoring the lives of the ones who died."

Sitting beside her mother, Abby says in a whispery voice, "It makes me sad. They didn't have a choice. They were just there."

An 'inspiring' example

Today, Chuck Keating is here. He is 54 and lives in Steamboat Springs. He is returning from a trip to Texas. He has made a special stop to see the memorial.

Why?

"I'm a retired school teacher, and Dave Sanders was a teacher and I feel this real strong connection. His example is so inspiring."

He lets out a long breath.

"It's very calming, y'know? And that thing that was written, about being a better person? That really means a lot to me."

Keating is talking about an inscription on the Ring of Healing, where anonymous quotes from parents and students are etched. He is talking about the one from a parent who wrote: "I hope people come here to this place to think about how they themselves can be better people rather than come here to reflect on death."

Keating walks the path that curves up behind the memorial to a hilltop. From here you are provided with a 360-degree panorama of mountains, sweeps of grass, playgrounds, baseball fields and Columbine High School. Directly below is the memorial.

So is Terry Bate. He lives a mile away. This is his third visit.

"What happened, it never goes away. You always remember. And this" - he sweeps his arm toward the rings - "helps you to remember. It causes you to remember."

Touching the granite pages

The sky is blue and immense. Sunlight pours down. More people arrive. A teenaged couple in running shorts. An elderly couple in sweaters. Groups of three, four, five. They fold their arms. They slowly shake their heads. They speak softly. They say nothing. They remember. Like the morning, they move along.

A woman comes with her mother and her own two daughters. The girls, too young to read, too innocent to fathom the loss of innocence, are well-behaved but restless. They run their hands over the granite pages, which are warm in the sun. They smile.

Maybe one day, another thousand mornings from now, they will come back and learn about the utter darkness of hate and the redeeming light of kindness. But not today. No, this morning all they know is that the smooth, hard pages make them feel good.

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