Wednesday, November 28, 2012

A Thought on a Tragedy

  Without entrenching myself too deeply in the context of what I am about to mention, I will begin by saying I was very disturbed the other day, and it took me very little effort to become so. I was drawn to click on a link from one news page to another, and was suddenly faced with the blank face of a 14-year-old-girl. This girl became pregnant I suppose around 9 months ago. She told no one, and apparently hid it from everyone including her parents whom she was living with during the past summer, in which it was hot outside. It was a year of significant drought.
  
  I'll be as brief as I can. This young girl went into labour on her own and gave birth to the baby in her bathroom. The baby was alive, and, terrified, I would imagine, she killed it.

  I've had this in my head for about a week now, and I am now reasoning with exactly why that is. It creates a picture in my mind that is pure sadness and I don't know how else to really explain it. In a way, it reminds me of a bit about Ernest Hemingway that I heard on the radio. Someone once challenged Hemingway to create a story using only six words, and so he said, `For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.`

  The young girl who killed her baby reminded me of Hemingway's writing, because he often wrote delicately about terrible things. What isn't said is often what really stands out. With this tragedy, I wanted to keep it to myself and tell no one, because who am I to share such a story? I ended up telling my mom. I wanted to know what she thought. She cringed when I described the nature of the delivery, and I could tell that she really empathized with the young girl.

  `She must have been so scared,` said Mom.

  The story is so tragic that I can`t really think about it directly. Only backwards through a mirror upside down sort of thing will do. I glanced around and sighed. `I hate that I know this and I hate that I am fretting about it. It is just a horrible thought.`

  Mom said to me the inevitable when she detected fervour in my tone: `Why don`t you write something about it?`

  I responded: `Some things you just can`t write down, because they are not meant to be showcased.` Again I thought about Hemingway.

  `How about a poem?` she asked.
  
  I shrugged. To delve into a gruesome tragedy such as this and then attempt to wax poetic sounded utterly monstrous. I would not be entering this into the medium of poesy.

  `How about a poem from the baby's perspective?`

  I shuddered. That seemed even worse.

  `Maybe baby forgives mum.`

  And I began sobbing. Humans take care of each other. This girl felt so alone that she couldn't reveal her pregnancy to anyone. Maybe, somewhere out there, baby forgives mum. Maybe someday, she will forgive herself.

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