The image of her will be branded in my mind forever. I arrived at the park four blocks from my house at promptly 7 a.m. for my daily walk around the park’s winding trails. I use this time to sort out any issues I may be having, or problems that have become overwhelming. I fill my lungs with the brisk morning air. And I think about me and my life. As I rounded the first lap I observed an older woman in the children’s play area picking up trash and cans. She continued on ahead of me and started her way back home. I was on my second lap when I noticed a pair of little feet hanging off the edge of the curvy slide in the children’s playground. She must be sleeping.

       On my third lap, a man whom I have grown familiar with, who works for the park service, came running up to me. “What is wrong with her,” he said in broken English.

       I said, “I think she is just sleeping.”
            
       “No, no,” he said in an urgent tone, “go see!” Even with a language barrier, there was no denying the panic on his face. I studied him carefully for a moment and I walked closer to the slide to investigate. Her eyes were closed and she was lying back on the slide with one hand across her lap. All of her white delicate fingers were adorned with cheap costume jewelry that sparkled with blue, red and pink stones. The other hand was up to the side of her head. Her purse lay behind her back propping her up on her side and her long black hair was tied in a ponytail.

       “She’s not breathing,” I yelled back to the small crowd that had gathered about 10 feet behind. “Oh my God, she’s bleeding.” A thick stream of bright red blood was flowing from behind her that had made it’s way almost to the end of the slide. “Oh my God, she has a gun in her hand,” I said in a panic. “Call an ambulance, I think she’s 19 dead!”

       I don’t think my mind had an opportunity to absorb the full impact of what I had just seen. After I asked the man to call an ambulance, I turned away and continued with my walk. By the time I had made my fourth lap several police officers had arrived and they were busy taping off the area of the slide, around the girl. Two news helicopters were hovering high in the sky like vultures eyeing prey. Did she kill herself? She cannot be more that 18 years old. She didn’t look that dead. She didn’t look ghostly. She couldn’t have been dead very long. The blood was still wet and oozing down the slide. She looks so young. What could be so bad in her life that would make her feel that there was no other way out? I approached an officer who had been watching me and I asked him if he needed a statement. He said, “I don’t know, did you see anything?”

       I said, “No, just a dead girl on the slide.”
       “Well, go ask one of the officers over there if he needs a statement from you.”
       “Oh, that’s OK. If you don’t think you need my help, then I am out!” I said indignantly. I walked home.

       When I walked in the house I turned on the television to check out the news. A little blip of information was mentioned about the girl. Suddenly, she consumed my thoughts. The image of her would not leave my mind. I could not think of anything else. I kept seeing her lying there on the slide, the small .22 caliber revolver pistol clenched in her hand. Her head was resting on it, hiding the hole. I did not see an exit wound. Her head was not blown off and there was really not that much blood. I said a prayer for her and asked God to give her another chance at life so she could try again, and maybe next time it won’t be so bad.

       I got in the shower, determined not to be affected by the tragedy of the girl. I continued on with my normal routine and told myself I was OK.

       On the way to school it hit me. Oh my God, she’s dead! I started to cry. My tears turned into hysterical sobs. I was gasping for air. My insides were quivering. I felt like throwing up. I could not believe I saw a young girl whose soul had abandoned her body. I cried for several minutes. I attempted, through my sobs, to explain to my professor why I did not think I would be able to be in class today. “She is all I can think about. She is all I can see.” Indeed, the image of the girl had seized my mind.

       I made my way back home and sat dazed outside in my backyard for hours, and I realized how grateful I should be that my problems are not as bad as they seem. I can still sit outside and feel the sun on my skin, the wind blowing through my hair. I can still hear the sound of rustling leaves and the songs that birds sing.

       Later that night, I realized that the girl had followed me home. She peered at me through the windows, she stood at the foot of my bed, she lurked in the shadows and settled inside my head. To see her in my mind’s eye was a disturbing fright. She was ghoulish and looked like death. “Go to God,” I whispered so only she could hear. In my mind, I lit her up with the illusion of light. In my bed I cowered under the covers until she looked like an angel. She smiled at me and turned and walked through the tunnel.

       For the next several days I scoured the newspapers, hoping to discover something about her and get answers to my many questions. But nothing was ever mentioned.

       I heard rumors in the neighborhood that the girl lived one block over from me. She was 14 years old. She had a note with her on that day. In it she said she was pregnant and wanted to die because her boyfriend didn’t love her.

       When I see that parks worker now, we both nod and share a half-hearted smile. We both know that now we share the same burden, the image of the girl.