There is a crack in everything
Sitting in a courtroom ending what was.
Make someone change. (Which can’t be done, I’ve learned.) Bring them back.
Tell them it is time for them to go.
Until eventually you let the kite billow up into the air with your hope attached to the end. Till it is so far up it is completely out of sight. And you know it is time to move on.
There is but one thing that comes to mind for which there is no end. And that is when a child is missing.
I once interviewed the family of a young girl who had been missing, at that time, for several years.
There are the first hours, when hope still reigns. Then there is the next step, when darkness begins to fall. And the hours turn into days, and the days into months.
And life, for that family, will never ever be the same.
What they were wearing when last they left. What time it was. What the weather was like.
You try to infer importance upon every small thing. Hoping it means something. Even a few years down the road, when there has been no word at all.
And what I find most tragic is that there is no “end” for them. No period at the end of the sentence.
No grave. No knowledge. And you have to wonder if there finally, perhaps blessedly, came an end to hope.
What stuffed animals rested on their pillow. The layers of dust that had settled on window panes.
It will take up residence in your mind and come back every year on the anniversary of their disappearance.
No matter how much time passes.
At odd moments, someone or something will remind you of them. A fair-skinned girl with blond hair; some little thing you recall from the photos you’d seen.
It becomes a trigger and I walk through that last day in my mind yet again. I have not forgotten. How could I possibly forget?
Wondering how long that child felt fear before the end.