Missing

Her photo is posted here next to my monitor. She looks at me with sad eyes as she stands in a kitchen, her hand on a counter. Her brown hair surrounds a pretty face with a hint of smile. Wearing dark blue scrubs with some sort of school emblem on the shirt, she seems prepared for her first job as a medical assistant — but she doesn’t look like she wants to work. She looks unable to move.

At nineteen, this girl, my granddaughter, appears to have lost the will to go forward. She’s a girl of silences, of the quiet stare. I wish she could tell me what’s causing her mood. She may not know the answer, leaving us unable to help. We assumed she was on her way to a life.

She didn’t show up to take that job. She disappeared into the city of Albuquerque, and I must ponder the loss of a girl who passed all her courses, ticked the boxes, obeyed the rules — until she left. I don’t know why, but I can see in her face that she’s miserable.

If she took drugs to feel happy, then that’s a story with a desperate ending. If she wandered till she found a friend, that too can be worrisome. If she stowed away and sailed to the tropics or joined an army, we’d have been informed. If she went on a crime spree, we’d have learned the news. There seems no proof that she’s made it alive.

This absence is like a wound. It is sore, constant, distressing. I can’t believe in a positive outcome, that she’s all right, smiling, that she’s found a place to be. I’ve only to glance at the photo to know this wound is open, and I’m helpless in the face of that reality.

Meanwhile my days go forward. The chipmunks raid the feeder outside the kitchen window, the sun shines on bits of snow, and the national news continues to upset me, frighten me, anger me. As with my personal worries about a missing child, I feel helpless to set things right, to revise the government’s crude stupidity and hasty decisions. It seems they’re not keeping watch over climate, or minding the needs of the people. My helplessness is like a burden I must carry, made more desperate by my missing grandchild.

This week my friend sent me photos of herself and her pals at the annual Women’s March on the town square protesting harmful, self-serving decisions by our President and administration, decisions that target the poor, insult our allies, and dismantle the protections and services of our institutions. (I liked their banner: “Ikea has a Better Cabinet.”) I’m touched by that effort to show strength and humor in the face of power. Their protest is a way to stand up and speak out, displaying a critique instead of helplessness.

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We’re in a time of national crisis. It’s not okay to leave Europe to cope beyond its means. It’s not okay to eliminate institutions we need, like national parks, public schools, a fair tax system or safeguards in our health system. I confess to a helplessness as I learn of this ruthless outrage, and I feel like a weak witness to a growing takeover by a tyrant with enough money and followers to change a democracy into what works for the few. I can write a letter, I can vote, I can stay aware of growing malevolence and support protest. Still, I feel I’m witnessing a dreadful smashing of precious traditions while I stand helpless.

In the past I’ve known this kind of helplessness while leaders rode unrestrained over free societies. That rampant bullying evolved into a world war, into murderous killing. Back then we didn’t believe fascists could prevail, that whole countries would be overrun. It seemed impossible, and our helpless refusal to get involved earlier resulted in the suffering of millions.

I wish I knew how to respond in the face of our government’s trajectory away from sanity and compassion. My feeling of helplessness destroys energy and paralyzes the will to act. I do know a real danger exists and the wrong people have too much power, because I have good information, led by intelligent journalists, wise friends and academics whose values I share. They write, they blog, they inform. They inspire me to write my emails and letters.

I wish I could write a letter to save my granddaughter and bring a look of hope into her eyes. I have no address. I wish she’d ask for help. I wish there was an article I could read that would show me a way to comfort her. Instead, she is gone from our touch, and we wait.