Lest we forget.

Tragedy struck in Newtown, CT today, and amid all the professions of shock and sympathy, everyone's prayers for those left behind and their pledges to hug their loved ones tighter than ever today, I've noticed a disturbing trend in thought: "This is a time for grieving. Save your opinions for another day. This is not the time." These people are sincere in their intentions, and I understand their desire to shelter those left behind in this fragile aftermath, but with all due respect, there is no better time than right now to have this conversation.

I don't mean to be callous. Like everyone else, my prayers and my heart go out to those whose lives have been forever altered by the actions of one unhinged gunman, and I agree that even such symbolic gestures as flying the flag at half-mast in honor of the dead are the least we can do in memory of those lost, and for the sake of those left behind. But I worry about our priorities here, because these are words and actions occurring after the fact, and no comforting embrace will ever repair the damage that was done today. For 27 people, their families, and their friends, it will always be too late. The President's speech, your Facebook status, grief counseling: these may well be effective as palliative care, but what we need is preventative action.

With regards to when is and is not the "right" time: Are there guidelines for the length of this grace period we afford conversations on how to prevent future tragedies? Is there a convenient time when we can openly communicate about practical, necessary ways to protect the people we love from what's become a recurring threat to their safety and peace of mind? Because Columbine happened, Virginia Tech happened, and Aurora happened, and it was too painful to talk about then. Newtown happened, and it's too painful to talk about it now. Do you know what sounds painful? Being shot in an elementary school classroom.

I'm asking genuinely: when will we, as a nation, be able to talk about this? However much this kind of talk hurts now, it will never get easier. Over two dozen people died today; I can't help but think that the best possible way to respect their memory is not to waste a single moment in initiating discussion about what we need to do so that this never happens again. Grieving for the past and planning for the future need not be mutually exclusive; in fact, it's exactly that false distinction that perpetuates this pattern of shootings. If this happens again tomorrow, will we once again hold off on addressing it until the day after? Friends and family will continue to mourn, but so too will weapons continue to enter into the hands of those unqualified to wield them.

No, today isn't the day to sit down and debate gun control. That was on yesterday's agenda, but we seem to have missed that meeting, and we've suffered the consequences.

A single mass shooting should make you sad. Two dozen in the past six years should make you angry, and that anger should make you want to act: not by offering consolatory pats on the back to wounded victims or tissues to bereaved parents, but by taking decisive measures to to ensure that no further blood nor tears will fall.

We claim, with apparent sincerity, that we will never forget the victims of today. Past history says we're lying to ourselves. With each day that passes, our outrage fades quietly into the background of the latest updates about Kate Middleton's pregnancy and the next episode of American Horror Story, the next semester or the new financial quarter, the daily challenges of raising a child or the endless back-and-forth between Republicans and Democrats in the House and Senate. Every day we continue to heal, but with that healing comes an amnesia that is both soothing and perilous, as the conversation that is "too soon" may once again be too late.

This day has been filled with suffering, and I don't mean to pour salt in the wound. All I ask is that we blink through our tears and find a way, once and for all, to ensure that this tragedy will be the last of its kind.