I guess what hits most folks is the randomness of it all.
A bridge, taken routinely by thousands every day, becomes a death trap for a few, on one day — just like that.
It's not like a hurricane, for which we're given some warning.
Or a tornado, for which often we're given little warning.
For people on that Minneapolis bridge, no warning.
One of those random, initially unexplainable ruptures in the routine that claim the lives of those simply unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Like the woman who dies of a heart attack after a nearly century old pipe explodes deep under a Manhattan street.
Or the motorist crushed bizarrely when tons of concrete fall on her vehicle from a ceiling in a Boston tunnel.
The odds, we're told of such events are millions to one.
Except for that one — that day — that moment.
When we all stop and wonder and think: There but by the grace of God.
Like the young truck driver interviewed earlier today, who added numbly, "and I had just crossed that bridge five minutes earlier."
Or the life-long resident who explained he must have taken that route thousands of times and never thought a thing about it.
Until it's gone and friends are gone too.
And the everyday normal things we take for granted aren't there. A bridge, a tunnel, a street.
A reminder: Life is fickle. Our hold on it even more so.
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