Universal mother
Trinidad can be hell sometimes. We just closed down our national airline and paid the pilots large sums of severance pay. Within days the wife of one of the pilots was snatched from her home, on her birthday at that, and held for ransom.
This woman has a 5 year old and a 7 year old. They're traumatised beyond imagination, and every day the poor husband begs for her release. The problem for me is that once children are involved in any crime or any tragedy, I internalise it to the point where I grieve as though it's happening to me. I lay awake in bed last night, thinking about her children. Feeling guilty because I was in a warm bed cuddled up with mine, and she's out there somewhere, chained up in a shack, if she's lucky. If she's not, she's buried in a shallow grave. She's been gone two weeks. It looks worse by the day. What will these children do? How will this poor man raise his children alone? Christmas will be just awful for them.
I don't know why I latch on to these things so. Maybe it's my writer's capacity for empathy. Maybe my imagination is just too acute. I wish I wouldn't torment myself, but I also don't want to lose the sensitivity. What good is a writer if she can't feel the emotions of others?
But it isn't just writing. It's motherhood, too. If there's one thing about me that has changed since I had children, it's that. I think in some way all mothers are linked by motherhood into a single universal entity. We feel each other's pain. I don't pray much, but I prayed for that woman last night.
UPDATE: I heard on the evening news that they found her and she's still alive! Oh, my god, I ached so hard for that lady. I can't help but wonder what the scene at their home is like tonight. Is she home or is she still in hospital? At least her children will still have christmas. Poor things. They'll never be the same again.
Oh, I haven't told you yet, but I have a new short story up on my website. It's called Playing Dead, and you can't tell it from the title, but it's a Christmas story. You might like it.
This woman has a 5 year old and a 7 year old. They're traumatised beyond imagination, and every day the poor husband begs for her release. The problem for me is that once children are involved in any crime or any tragedy, I internalise it to the point where I grieve as though it's happening to me. I lay awake in bed last night, thinking about her children. Feeling guilty because I was in a warm bed cuddled up with mine, and she's out there somewhere, chained up in a shack, if she's lucky. If she's not, she's buried in a shallow grave. She's been gone two weeks. It looks worse by the day. What will these children do? How will this poor man raise his children alone? Christmas will be just awful for them.
I don't know why I latch on to these things so. Maybe it's my writer's capacity for empathy. Maybe my imagination is just too acute. I wish I wouldn't torment myself, but I also don't want to lose the sensitivity. What good is a writer if she can't feel the emotions of others?
But it isn't just writing. It's motherhood, too. If there's one thing about me that has changed since I had children, it's that. I think in some way all mothers are linked by motherhood into a single universal entity. We feel each other's pain. I don't pray much, but I prayed for that woman last night.
UPDATE: I heard on the evening news that they found her and she's still alive! Oh, my god, I ached so hard for that lady. I can't help but wonder what the scene at their home is like tonight. Is she home or is she still in hospital? At least her children will still have christmas. Poor things. They'll never be the same again.
Oh, I haven't told you yet, but I have a new short story up on my website. It's called Playing Dead, and you can't tell it from the title, but it's a Christmas story. You might like it.
posted by Roslyn | 4:54 AM
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