Some thoughts and memories get tucked away in their little boxes and you put them on the shelf and hope you never have to open the box and look at those ugly things ever again.
Then you get asked a routine question on a juror questionnaire and it feels like someone came along and just swept the box onto the floor, spilling its contents.
Have you, a friend, or a relative, ever been the victim of a crime?
You sit there, kind of gaping at the mess on the floor, and you don’t even get the satisfaction of saying, “Hey now, please clean up the mess you made!”
All I get is a checkbox, not even a space to record what kind of crime, or how many, or against whom.
I suppose, if I get called for duty, I will get asked to expand on that checkbox. In pubic. For the record.
Things I don’t even like to recall. It doesn’t seem fair. I guess a lot of people go through that.
Have you, a friend, or a relative, ever been the victim of a crime?
I could write but what good would that do? No good would be gained and I know this because I’ve tried it already. It’s an exercise in futility. For me, anyway.
Just like weeping.
I like for the ugly things to remain in their boxes, where all good corpses should be.
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Personal, Sorrow, Jury Duty, Memories
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