I found your grave today,

In a quiet corner of the cemetery

Not far from where we grew up.

It was a warm February afternoon,

That tasted of spring.

I walked up and down the rows of stones

Searching until I found you.

 

You’re not here yet;

Though your father is

(he lived longer than mine).

Yours is just a marker

With a name

In cold metal letters

And a void to the right of the dash.

 

You were born just six years before me

How can this be?

In my mind, my little girl’s mind,

You were so grown-up. So old.

 

I haven’t seen you for decades,

Yet I remember you so well.

The braces on your teeth.

Your thin, twisted lips.

Your dark hair,

Sweeping in a forelock across your face.

 

I remember what you did to us,

My sister and me.

Overandoveragain.

When nobody could see,

And nobody would tell.

Or so you thought.

 

I remember the smell of the old car

In your father’s driveway,

Steps away from the safety of my own house

What a dark place it was.

And still is.

Somewhere I don’t go voluntarily.

I never did.

But that didn’t matter.

 

I remember calling you dirty names

Names whose meaning I didn’t even comprehend.

What little girl would, at seven years old?

As we stood on the bridge over the little creek

And I, emboldened by the seeming safety

Of a larger group of kids,

Called you out for what you were.

But then you told me, you told them,

That only girls could be called

That name.

The name about which I knew nothing

And everything.

Just as I knew shame,

And fear, and dread.

 

This wrong that I carry

This wrong that you gave me.

Impossible to escape.

Impossible to forget.

 

I wonder if you’ve ever looked back

And felt remorse or culpability,

For what you did, for what you stole.

I wonder if you did it to others too.

I wonder where life has taken you.

You’re still out there somewhere.

So the stone tells me.

 

As I look at your name,

Coldly spelled out in the granite

A seven year old girl stands,

Proud and defiant

And says

You did not win.

One of my stops during the whirlwind last few days was at the Canadian women's curling championship, aka the Scotties Tournament of Hearts. I do translation for Curling Canada, and they flipped me a media pass, so I popped by to say hello to my virtual correspondents and put faces to names. They gave me quite the welcome, allowing me to sit at the chief umpire's table and watch the action. I'd brought my Canon Mark III with the 70-200 lens on it, and I had an iffy moment with security at the door, when he told me that lenses over 12 inches were prohibited. That's when I played the ''but I'm media'' card. I didn't clarify that I was a translator rather than a photographer. And the camera in the backpack distracted him from my purse, which also contained contraband (a full bottle of diet coke (no fluids allowed) and several protein bars (no outside food allowed)). I was only able to stay for an hour or so, but what a colourful, vibrant and dynamic sport it is!

 

(but the company was quite the opposite)