[the Writing of Kuypers]
so that it wasn’t very crowded. And
some people reading a paper, a woman
out the window at the aging, rattling
nearby buildings. Ordinary day in
just to avoid eye contact with other
we have to somehow keep our
I hear a bit of a scuffle behind me,
nothing to ponder over. Then
a glimpse of two men struggling.
I crawl down to the floor in front
no idea who has the gun or which
if this seat in front of me could
the gun occasionally going off.
am afraid of being in the line
in an effort to stop the gunman.
or just someone on a shooting
and now comes the question: do we
gunman try to escape out the doors?
and now none of us even knows
don’t open. I hear a few gun-
A barrage of policemen cover the
Many more screams. They don’t
gunman, shoot him before he could
hours were spent on the train and
to offer them; I barely saw what
argument but a man trying to stop
the man that survived the struggle
told me that the gunman walked
and aimed for my head. That was
was out to kill me. But I’ve never
need to know my reply, just wanted
This man’s intentions were to kill
And now I think of this every day,
have this burden to carry with me,
this event, and in a way I couldn’t
And this is my burden. All this pain.
[JanetKuypers.com][Bio][Poems][Prose]
this is my burden
I managed to find a seat on the el
train, for once, I was going to work
early enough
the ride was the same as the el train
always is:
putting on her make-up, most
just staring
tracks, the smattering of gang
graffiti on the
Chicago, slightly overcast. I wear
my sunglasses
train members. We all know this
code: we know
sense of personal space, our
sense of selves.
more the moving of people than
an argument;
a gunshot rings out. I turn around
and catch
Instantly I duck down, as most
others do.
of my seat, trying to protect
myself, having
direction the gun is pointing. I
don’t even know
protect me from a bullet. There are
screams everywhere;
I try to look to see if anyone
was shot, but
of fire. Another few men jump
in the fight,
Why is this happening? Was it
an argument,
spree? The el comes to a screeching
halt at a stop,
make a run for it, and risk death,
or will the
The train ride to here seemed an
eternity,
if we should try to get off the train.
The doors
shots; two men scream. The doors
finally open.
doorways. I could glance up and
see them.
seem to end. The policemen
rush the
shoot anybody else. It was over.
The next two
platform answering questions. I
had nothing
happened. They informed me that
it was not an
a man about to go on a shooting
spree. Then
walked up to me, and when no one
was listening
down the aisle, stopped four chairs
short of mine,
when he jumped up to stop him.
That man
met him before, I said, and the man
said he didn’t
to let me know why all this
happened.
me. But why? Did he think I was
someone else?
the answers still not coming to me.
And I still
that all these people died, all of these
people witnessed
explain or justify, it was all because
of me.
All this guilt. All these unanswered
questions.
Copyright Janet Kuypers.
All rights reserved. No material
may be reprinted without express permission.
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