for police and family members: Emily Dickinson

Now that the duties to the public are done, there are a million private duties. The real work of living again starts when all those strangers pack up and go home. So, Miss Dickinson's poem, numbered 341.
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After great pain, a formal feeling comes--
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs--
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round--
On Ground, or Air, or Ought--
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone--

This is the hour of Lead--
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow--
First--Chill--then Stupor--the the letting go--

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So, dear strangers in Lakewood: you haven't slept or taken care of yourself. You have to start that now.
And dear strangers elsewhere: this is where the candles need to be freshened and lit again, this time for the survivors.