Haunted by Questions

On a gorgeous autumn day, a walk took me pass the local skatepark. Although school was in, several teens crowded the park practicing stunts. None of them were tremendously competent, but all of them were laughing, having a good time. A young dad arrived with a four years old pig-tailed daughter decked out in bright pink protective gear. Immediately, all the skaters were careful of her presence.

“Daddy, watch me. Watch me!” the little girl yelled. As she slipped off the board, her dad firmly held her up. I smiled at his words to her, “I’m right beside you, little princess.”

Suddenly, a loud woman’s voice broke my amusement.

“Why does that ‘b*** old lady need to be here?

What the f*** is she doing here watching us?”

Briefly turning, I glimpsed a teenage girl crushed against one of the skaters.

Her voice yelled out again, insistent and louder this time as she stared straight at me, “F***g old lady, go home. Stay in your f**g rocking chair.” To my shock, I realized the ‘old lady’ she meant was me.

Hearing a girl’s startled cry, I turned back to the skatepark to see the little girl’s skateboard fly out on the pavement. Her dad rushed to comfort her but, barely hurt, she was soon giggling in his arms, standing back on the board.

As I turned away, I caught the young woman’s eyes.

She glared at me, radiating an unsheathed dagger of rage.

Have you ever had one of these moments, a moment that gives you pause, a moment of uncertainty? One that you will revisit, rehash, rethink, over and over again?

I stood still, in that moment.

Slowly, I turned around to face her.

She glared with rage.

I absorbed her rage.

For the briefest of moments, staggering grief replaced rage; she dropped her head.

Stunned, I stood still.

I ached to walk over, to lift her bowed head.

Perhaps a woman like me had wounded her. Perhaps a father had failed to protect her falls. Or perhaps, she saw a little girl held tightly wrapped in my arms, my two year old granddaughter.

I can only wonder.

Had this young woman’s grandmother once held her just like this, maybe in this very park? Had she been called a little princess? Had she been loved and protected like the little girl on the skateboard? Or perhaps, had all failed her?

I wondered at her rage, I wondered more at her grief. How did an innocence I held in my arms become this foul-mouthed rage-filled teenage girl?

It took absolutely everything not to reach out to touch her still bowed head and ask her,

Please, tell me. What can I do? What can I do ? How can I return you to this moment of innocence I hold, just for a few moments, a few moments to remember how it feels to feel love and protected,

What can I do to protect you from this rage storming your life?

The question haunts me still.