A Voice Called Trouble

ABSTRACT.

The walls lie bare and full of rain-washed silt that stained the bottom half where the stucco met the dirt.

It was a house that blended into the road—not too plain, not too Jane. In fact, it was just right—her home, her place.

Not ours to judge and yet, here we are. Her once stoic, sacred house being picked apart—some for evidence, some for clues, some for tepid curiosity.

Another woman, another person, another family living their worst nightmare—another one for the books—boxes and folders of reports and photographs collected for a hopeful outcome and with so many advancements, hopeful it doesn't become a cold-case.

So it begs the question—what do you see when you look at your house? Do you tidy your room when you leave or keep a log of your travels in case you fail to come home or do you leave it as is?

Does her house remind you of all the lost souls and missed opportunities you passed or do you see growth and hope on your path?

Does it remind you of her, or me, or you? Only you can know that answer. Only time will tell.

At her house the flower pots were plump, round, hollow pumpkins dotting the tops of balusters. Moth carcasses strung withering strands of weeping snake plant left crumbling in the sun.

Detectives stood along the front of the stoop trying to put the pieces together on this wonky puzzle. Their eyes brushed along the plain, aged Terra-cotta trim.

Mr. Henry stood at the edge of the drive recounting his narrative—not knowing it was the last he would see of her as she sat willfully quiet on the creaky old porch swing staring back at him.

It was treasured time, borrowed time, and for a second her could be anyone.

Her could be anyone.

Anyone...

The woman sitting on the porch, the lady standing in front of you in line, you walking to your parked car after visiting with friends. He watched, he will be watching, waiting like a hawk and no words could calm the storm that was about to befall them all.

It could be anyone, anytime, anywhere.

Ageless, faceless, fearless.

Loved, admired, hated.

Forgotten, abandoned, neglected.

Forsaken.

It happens to us all; Her. She. Him. He. Me. Them. All the missing people across the planet, the world, the past, the present, the future.

Here one second, gone the next. She was a mystery—at least to you and me; it would seem she knew all the answers, but who was she? She was missing. She was unable to speak. She was the wind, the trees, the long-lost and now empty set of memories.

We all try so hard to go along this journey unscathed, it isn't hard, it isn't rocket science—but it isn't easy either.

That stranger, that winking smile from across the crowded room, that tap on your car window, the knock at the door from your latest Amazon delivery, the newest set of neighbors in the rental across the street. So many people. Even the one you trust the most—so what do you do?

Anyone, anytime, anywhere.

It's so much to keep up with but you do it anyway—day in, and day out, remaining ever so vigilant for your own safety. But what do you do when you let your guard down for that split second—is it fate, is it destiny or will you remain unscathed.

Living to document another thing to remember "not to do" for next time, but often that isn't enough.

It's frightening, but we can't always live our lives in fear.

We have to remember and honor those who've gone before us, those who've left us too soon, those who've gone missing. They are not forgotten.

They will never be forgotten, ever.