what struck me was her name. anastasia. the same name as my little cousin, the coltish soccer-playing fourteen-year-old.
they interviewed one of her uncles on the news and i couldn't help imagine my uncle mark in his place, talking leadenly to reporters about a sibling's daughter who will never come running in the door again, never reduce us all to helpless howling laughter and aching ribs over the supper table with her stories. they said her favourite colour was pink and i can't help thinking of my cousin's green room, shirts, capris, all the colour of bright limes. did the other anastasia ever paint her room pink with re-store paint?
it makes me shiver to think how casual it was, how random. i can't imagine aunty and uncle's house without her, can't imagine her not being. stopped. can't imagine that energy, that gift for razor-sharp mimicry, those quick tough hands all being stilled. i don't want to think about how the death of another one of their children would tear at her parents.
i don't understand violence, even the kind whose edges left my skin scarred and bruised and my mind cautious. being that close to it didn't give me any kind of insight. i don't know how a person could do that to another human being. how far would i have to go before i could reduce another person to nothing but a target? someone who might be another person's beloved sister, daughter, younger cousin. someone who has all-out wrestling matches with her six-years-older brother and wins. someone who goes to folkfest and listens to hawksley workman and plays endless rounds of tikal.
they interviewed one of her uncles on the news and i couldn't help imagine my uncle mark in his place, talking leadenly to reporters about a sibling's daughter who will never come running in the door again, never reduce us all to helpless howling laughter and aching ribs over the supper table with her stories. they said her favourite colour was pink and i can't help thinking of my cousin's green room, shirts, capris, all the colour of bright limes. did the other anastasia ever paint her room pink with re-store paint?
it makes me shiver to think how casual it was, how random. i can't imagine aunty and uncle's house without her, can't imagine her not being. stopped. can't imagine that energy, that gift for razor-sharp mimicry, those quick tough hands all being stilled. i don't want to think about how the death of another one of their children would tear at her parents.
i don't understand violence, even the kind whose edges left my skin scarred and bruised and my mind cautious. being that close to it didn't give me any kind of insight. i don't know how a person could do that to another human being. how far would i have to go before i could reduce another person to nothing but a target? someone who might be another person's beloved sister, daughter, younger cousin. someone who has all-out wrestling matches with her six-years-older brother and wins. someone who goes to folkfest and listens to hawksley workman and plays endless rounds of tikal.
i... just don't know.
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