I’ve never been sideswiped by a car.

I’ve never been hit by a train I didn’t see coming.

I’ve never felt the heat of a volcano’s sudden rage spewing over the world.

Sure, there’ve been earthquakes. But the pictures stayed on the walls.

And yeah, I was in New York on that Tuesday, but I was among the throngs that walked calmly past working stoplights and got on subways that still ran.

While those left hooks might’ve been big, the whole world didn’t move from its axis.

But now I have things. And people to look after.

Specifically, two boys who are making an animated movie with Legos in the next room while I write this out.

I love those kids more than I understand. Or even understood.

It’s hard to feel the future I held for them in my mind; the future that had gone unquestioned until last week; the future I never doubted I’d provide (it was just a question of how) could be dissolving like sand in our fingers.

In the shadow of headlines about a world in free fall, I realize how tied I was (and am) to these ideas. The things.

I know you’re supposed to make a decision and move on without looking back.

I’ve done it before. Like that Thursday after 9/11 when, going through a turnstile at Cooper Union, I thought, the hell with it. What I’m leaving behind isn’t ever going to lead to the right place: This risk is worth it.

Now is different.

Everyone is asking what’s next at the same time. Not just in NY, but everywhere on the planet.

Disbelief in the disintegration of the world that we all felt was as solid as a wood cabinet in a kitchen has me blinking.

So instead of asking with wonder “I wonder what will happen next?” I ask with a billion other dreading voices the same question.

Because a train has come. A car has crossed the curb.

And no one was looking.