By Ed Dzitko

Imagine, every December, the pain the holiday season brings.

In the windows of 20 houses, 20 where kids lived, a single candle burns. It’s been eight years, but the hurt remains. Moms and Dads are older, aged twice that, at least, and siblings are grown, but their grief has not subsided.

Their pain is as fresh as the newly-cut trees they decorate with bright and shiny orbs, strings of garland, popcorn and berries, and flashing lights.

Will Christmas ever be the same for any of them? Unlikely. There’s nothing worse than an innocent child, in school, shot by a psycho.

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