They said it was a stray bullet, as in case that made it less demanding to swallow. As in the event that calling it “stray” made it less purposefulness, less dangerous, less last. But bullets do not stray like mutts. They do not get misplaced. They do not meander off seeking out for domestic. They are terminated. Pulled. Directed. Somebody, some place, made a choice — which choice found its way into the chest of somebody who didn't sign up to be portion of a war.
She wasn't a pack part. Wasn't in uniform. Wasn't indeed assumed to be there — and however, there she was, on the sidewalk, holding a bag of oranges, grinning at nothing in specific. And after, that similar to that, gone.
They attempt to consolation you with technicalities. “It wasn't implied for her.” “Wrong put, off-base time.” But how is there ever a right time to be lively and after that not be? How do you rationalize breath turning into hush since of a bullet implied for somebody else?
I keep playing it over in my intellect — the haphazardness of it. The brutality of chance. The reality that a single inch might have changed everything. A delay in her step. A bumble. A delay at the showcase. A moment longer tying her shoe. Possibly she'd still be here. But bullets do not hold up. They do not inquire questions. They fair hit.
And we, the ones cleared out behind, are forced to carry the affect. Not in our bodies, but in our hearts. Within the purge seats. The photographs that do not age. The content messages that never got replied. The adore that had no chance to wrap up what it begun.
Call it stray on the off chance that you need. But to us, it was think. It was individual. It was her.
And it changed everything.