This story isn't mine to tell
...but when has that ever stopped me?
On an inconspicuous alley-way corner, behind a humble, powder-blue house, stands a small A-frame memorial for a young girl. It’s hard to say how old she is; she could’ve been 17 or 22. I guess it doesn’t matter though, does it? Either one is far too premature.
It’s hard to conceptualize how unlearned we are at that age; I understand now how half-grown young adulthood sees us. And yet, I see her photograph, perfect brunette curls and ambiguous doe eyes, and I feel awful for using her pain to put my own into perspective.
Imagining the situations that led to her death is an effortless endeavor. In a city so sweeping, with long-established pockets of transgression, there seems to be boundless opportunities for fate to manifest its tragic ending. Still, I wonder: Was she an archetypal victim of someone’s crime of opportunity? Or did she tumble into trouble, thinking it would end when she said so, just for it to turn into something permanent?
Every day, I drag myself past her photograph, feeling everything one does in their twenties: the untethered distress of adolescent heartbreak, tumbling back into love yet again, wondering if my life really held any consequence… sometimes I question why I’m still here, when this girl, undoubtedly younger than me, was taken. It’s evident how loved she is, her flowers and candles eternally, flawlessly arranged. It seems as though someone comes around just to stand her offerings straight, cradling her memory in safe hands even if her body is somewhere untouchable.
I wonder who might do that for me. Will anyone feel so compelled as to hold me in high regard, casting goodwill onto me beyond the cloak of death? What if I fade away, my essence being wiped from the memories of all who knew me? What if I never have an impact on those I wish to?
Maybe she asked herself the same things. Maybe she knew that someone would care.
