By Chaitra Somasundar, Staff Writer
Note: This article is a fictional letter written.
Painting depicting a mother’s love (photo courtesy of etsy.com)
Dear Maman,
The sound of police cars must be ringing in your ears as you rushed to the theater in the hope of finding me alive. You must have begun praying for a miracle when you heard about the massacre over the news. I put on my best dress for this date. Makeup to cover up my flaws. If only inner beauty and physical beauty was turned inside out, I wouldn’t have had to struggle so much with concealer. I wish I had eaten that red velvet cupcake you made for me yesterday instead of worrying about my weight. I wanted to match up to his good looks. But now I see that what I felt for him mattered more. I loved him so much that I hoped to find what you have with dad.
Young love (photo courtesy of theprisma.co.uk)
A few men walked in and made a speech about their beliefs to justify what they were going to do to us. “Pretend to be dead,” he whispered just before they began the slaughter. I vaguely remembered the bedtime story you told me about the boy who pretended to be dead in front of a bear to avoid an attack. I fought my gasps of despair and silent tears as they shot him. Please don’t be dead, I desperately wished. I wondered if I could move on from this tragedy with time. “Time heals everything,” people say. If I survive this, I would have so much more appreciation for a kiss, sunsets, clear blue skies, the sound of a child’s laughter and everything else that I took for granted.
Masses mourning for the victims of recent massacres (photo courtesy of theguardian.com)
I wonder why people go public about hatred and private about love. I would shout out my love for you if they hadn’t shot me next. How much you fussed over my wounded knee when I was 4! I felt it was pointless – how much we love and care to keep one other safe and sane when someone who doesn’t even know my name has a right over my life. Someone with simply a different belief from mine can dictate whether I am entitled to live. People say that the worst thing that a parent can suffer is the death of their own child and for that, I’m sorry.
It seems futile that such horror stories will now inspire plays and poetry.