the mystery of

Immediately following high school, I worked full-time for a few years. Part-time student, 9 to 5 other stuff. At my job, I had occasion to read. A lot. Books for school and such. There was plenty of down time that could be spent doing other things. That was cool, pretty much the only cool thing about that job.

I've never been a newspaper reader, but one day I picked up a copy of something resembling "news." Back when they had regular writers who assembled somewhat local stories, rather then rehashing packaged pieces from around the country. Just to make sure we all understand the same thing about the latest medical research or, in some cases, interpretations of political maneuvering. "Some" might be a bit optimistic.

This had none of that. The cover story was a total and complete tragedy: the murder of a very young, local women. Not a whodunit, because they knew already. But there was murkiness in the details of why and just what, exactly, went down. In the end, the sentences handed down were minimal, especially given the nature of the crime. It was all very, very bad.

I remembered the story being crafted as a metaphor for a sadness that had consumed parts of my city. A rise in violent crime. Senselessness and abandon. There were references to the neighborhood where the crime occurred as being "rough". There were allusions; this kind of thing might happen there, though the writer did not give blame to the environment. This should not have happened, never and not anywhere. The seeds had been sewn long ago.

I read the story at my desk. There were so many details, it took up several pages. I was attached to every word, to the interpretations and the facts and the assumptions about what those facts meant, or what they might have meant. It was not pleasant or exciting. I was afraid. This was my town, but none of these things sounded like they could happen here. I didn't know where they were talking about. No familiar landmarks. I only knew streets with names. This must have been far away from me. Far enough to make me feel safe. But it sounded like such a big deal. I wondered if everyone had known about it except for me. I finished the story, and I didn't ask anyone if they knew. But I thought about it a lot, until I didn't anymore.

Time passes, and that story and many of its details have stuck with me. There have been contexts that give clues. Where the victim worked is a place I've driven past. I've thought about her every time. Without intention, I bring up some of the details in my mind, fuzzy though they are. And then I put them away. It is just not good to think about those things for very long. It's amazing how memories flow in and out and mean something but not too much. All the things we think throughout any given day. If we stopped to dwell too long, we would stand still forever.

Something that has faded, though, is the metaphor I mentioned. A sense that this story meant something more about the land. This memory has not stayed as much. Neither has the sense that this was a big case. There have been many events since then. A lot of other tragedies. And each one is as large as life for the moment its in the eye. When it's gone, there's not a space left unfilled. Just blanks in the periphery, where there are certain people who remember everything that used to be there.

Today, I thought very clearly of this case again. I had mentioned it to my husband when one of those times of remembering struck me, and I asked if he had heard of it, which he hadn't. I decided to try and find the original article to share it with him. In part so it could be big for him, too. And, if I'm honest, to see if the details I remembered were real or just the product of a groping memory. Maybe it hadn't happened at all; like when you see a movie for the second time and you wonder if the ending has changed. I had a few key words which I mixed back in forth in the search. Finally, I found it. Nestled in the findings, but certainly the same story that had once been read on paper.

There were several things I had remembered with crystal clarity. Descriptions of the trial, some direct quotes. And some things I hadn't known at all that now seem interesting. But something that hadn't stuck with me looked up from the first paragraph. The first sentence, even.

It was the location of the murder. It was one block from my current home.

I read the story out loud as though it were for the first time. Every landmark was not just recognizable; they make up the backdrop of my every day. Where phone calls were made just before. The house. The house. Corners and blocks. Places to eat. Everything is here.

I finished reading. We both agreed it was so terribly sad, and things have changed so much since then. "This isn't the same place." We haven't heard about these things happening that close in many years. It's safe now.

For someone's family, it is the same place. On those peripheries are endless spaces that used to be one thing and now the absence means something. Driving by this noun and the past tense will make someone stop.

Standing still.

We will fill this house with love and memories. Like tonight, too, she walked like mad and shook her head "no" to me when I asked her to stop doing something. Where she pulled the blanket up and over her head, getting caught, laughing without end. She leaped over my legs to cross the room and get a toy, banging her head on the floor and bursting into tired and woozy tears. But not into so many that she couldn't make her way over to my arms and put her head close to my chest, her face red and crying aloud. Wrapping herself as far around me as she could. I hushed her. And I kissed her. I held her and sent her love through the safeness I provide. Until she calmed down, and smiled, and went to play away from me again.