Her big brown eyes faltered, lingering on the silhouette of a man dressed in black, gun in hand, invading the television. I could see the reflections of the light from the screen dancing in her eyes…as a look of terrified confusion crossed the innocence of her soft face. Her silky brows were furrowed, just trying to understand, comprehend.
Trying to understand the panic in the voice of the commentator, the pale faces of the terrorized, clutching belongings, children, loved ones, the desolate rings of shattering gunfire in the background.
I glanced back to the screen, praying, hoping that what I knew would happen next, didn’t happen. But it did.
The man dressed in black turned towards the vicinity of the news camera, so we could make out his general features, and fired.
My youngest, baby sister turned towards us and asked a question that will haunt my conscience forever, “Is it real?”.
My heart sank, because yes, “Yes, it is real.”
I have tryed to protect her from the villainy and insane horror of this world, but last night, her innocence was violated.
And as I watch her turn back towards her toys, making up silly dreams and re enacting girlish fantasies, I know that somewhere in the mazes of her vast mind, in the gardens of lilac and rose, and unicorns and kittens, at some hidden corner there will be the ever looming shadow of a figure dressed in black, pointing a hand gun at her rosy face.
And that I can never erase.