Chalk Line

Chalk is the magic of blackboards, sports fields and little girl's sidewalk games of Hop-Scotch. How many equations and statements, measured lines, and boxes do you imagine have been drawn upon those waiting surfaces? Dare one imagine -into infinity? On this day, however, looking down at this particular sidewalk, one is immediately taken aback by the sarcasm of adaptation. There, in heavy-caked blueish and ominously thick chalk, a line is drawn in the shape of what looks like a curled up fetus; only larger. It is expanded voluminously to accommodate the size of an adult - a dead adult. There is no magic to the outskirt of this irregular curvature, only an unambiguous stakrness. Moments ago the now empty space within the blue outlined enclosed a living person. That occupant is quickly designated as "the body," "the cadaver," or "the deceased," and so, is hastily carted off to a morgue. One instant this was someone- alive and breathing- and the next,- a stone-cold corpse who no longer owns their humanity. Having lost their life at the hands of another, this nameless person is identified forever after simply as, "the victim." And while the perpetrator shouts and demands their rights, the only thing left for the victim is the silence of lost life sanctified in the ritual of "last rites." No ACLU representative would or could advocate for the victim. This casualty would not have the life a perpetrator does to secure a lawyer. Instead, the State will represent the fallen "in perpetuity." There would be no plea bargain, no court date would be assigned, and no judge or jury selected, no Court of Appeals. There are no years; not one, not twelve, not twenty, not even a second to fight for the right not to be a victim. There might be stays of execution for the killer, while there are no stays before the victim's execution. Certainly, there was no clemancy. The dead will file no frivolous jailhouse law suits costing the tax payer's untold dollars' worth of nonsense. They will make no silly demands that jelly accompany their jailhouse peanut-butter sandwiches. The dead make no demands for there is no one to protest. The dead's jail is forever the grave. Oh yes, there will always be a mass of 'do-gooders' lining up to grumble about the state's taking of a life. Indeed! There will be more people protesting the death of the murderer on the night of execution than showed up at the victim's funeral. The victim didn't want a funeral, much less last rites, but got them. The only thing the victim really ever wanted was the right not to die, not then; not the way they died. And -already, that chalk line, once so pronouned and repugnant, has been worn away by passing footsteps and time. There is sadness, both to the senseless loss of lives and the indignity of task that chalk too often is required to perform. For chalk and the marks it makes, after all; were intended for the magic of black boards, sports fields, and little girls sidwalk games of hop-scotch.