Missing

For me, it started with a message sent to my inbox at work. At the same time both innocuous and niggling. A girl was gone. Missing. There was really no other information. Just a request to keep one's eyes open. A couple days later, her picture was everywhere. Covering the walls. A beautiful girl. Missing. Gone. Drawn to the picture, I gaze at her eyes. Searching. For insight? Understanding? Who is she? Her eyes reflect strength and vulnerability. A sense of humour and a serious streak. Mischeviousness and sorrow. The eyes are haunting. Her expression relaxed yet I know that after the picture was taken she would have gotten up. Moved. No longer frozen. Disappeared from the frame. As I look into her eyes I begin to see myself reflected. That's a danger. I don't know her. I only see her picture. What I am reading into the picture is coming from myself. My own fears. Insecurities. Hopes. Dreams. Slowly news starts to trickle in. She went skating. She was angry. She was depressed. She left her computer on. She left her wallet. She left her cell phone. Left them behind. Police are on campus. Searching the river. Searching the shadows. They are as shadows themselves. They work alongside us but make no contact. They are both in and outside of our world. Parallel. Like her. Now that she is gone. Missing. Her family has made pleas. Heartfelt. Heart breaking. That she left with no word is uncharacteristic. Not her. The police don't suspect foul play. We all, however, are peering into shadows ourselves. Into mirrors. Aware that the boogie man exists. He hides behind corners ready to jump out. He is beside us. He is within us. Ready to take us. Do damage. Steal. Remove us. Make us gone. Missing.

When I was in the Sault I examined two pictures in my father's house. They are pictures of his father. My grandfather. I have looked at them in passing over the years. I had never really looked at them in order to see. One of the pictures depicts my grandfather, my grandmother and my uncle posing for the camera. This is the only picture that survived the war. The only picture that exists from the time when my father still resided in the village where he was born. The second picture is of two headshots side by side. One of my grandmother and the second of my grandfather. The picture of my grandfather was taken from the family portrait. There is only one image of my grandfather left. Someone had carefully drawn in a shirt and tie to his headshot. Funny that I only noticed this now. I examined his eyes. Trying to find myself in his face. In the past, I remember looking to my grandmother for this. His face never really drew me in. He seemed inconsequential. I asked my dad about him. Apparently, my grandfather had a reputation of being tough and fair. People looked up to him and followed his lead. When the communists came to their village, he was chosen as a farm leader. A spokesman. The people of the village didn't care much for the communists. To them, communism was an excuse for laziness. One day, my grandfather was taken away by a couple men driving a black car. He was never seen by his family again. He was gone. Missing. My grandmother tried to find him. She searched. She asked questions. She demanded answers. Finally, she was told. She was told to let him go. He was gone. Missing. If she continued, she too would go missing. Be gone. She should focus on her family. Her sons. She took her family away. She left the village and went to Finland.

I look at the face of my grandfather. His image. His jaw line appears strong. His hair thick and full. His eyes are bright but narrowed. Are they mean? My father says no. His frame is light. I see my son's structure in his. I asked my father if he remembers hugs. Play time. My father's memories are sketchy. He remembers being held after falling off a wagon into horses. He was held and comforted. The gash in his forehead tended to lovingly. My father remembers getting punished with a belt after knocking over a bag of salt that he had been told explicitly not to touch. What memories will I carry with me into old age? What will I discard? What will be taken from me? What will be stolen?

The village where my father came from no longer exists. Its people scattered. Missing. Gone. The language too no longer exists. No longer spoken. No longer heard. I know only a couple words. Out of context. I repeat them in vain. Mayaa. Sayaa. Me. You. I don't know the word for us. The connection to my past is gone. Missing. I am left with only a few clues. A few pieces. A picture. An image. Scattered memories.