I’m a writer. And as is typical of a writer, I have an active imagination. It whirls and swirls and comes up with all sorts of fantasmagoric outcomes for mundane activities.
I made a baloney sandwich. What if at school my son takes the baloney out, puts it over his face and poked holes so he can see through it. Then the teacher sees him and he gets in trouble and I have to go down there and we get in an argument and then I tell her what I REALLY think and then she gets mad and smacks me and I have to call the police for assault and…
 Yeah, my life is one big episode of 24. Really.
But my brain really and truly goes off on tangents. Like it’s got a mind of its own, ha!
Except some days I want to turn it off. Somedays. Like today.
Because today, this is the cover of the Calgary Sun.Â
And my brain cannot stop coming up with ways this could happen; what events took place; what did that home sound like? What about when it was all over and all that was to be heard was the crying of that poor, poor baby?
I cry when I read about police and EMS responders crying. But my brain - my infernal, stupid brain - asks what the scene looked like, what it smelled like, what horrible sights there were to see.
I’m not being snoopy, I’m not sadistically wishing I were there, I’m not thinking anything other than how sad the entire situation is.
It tells me that I could go adopt that poor baby and raise her, that I could cuddle and love her just like I do for my own children. It tells me that I would never, ever tell her what happened. Not once. She could find out after I’m gone from some well-meaning (but stupid) family member who wants her to know the truth.
And then she could write her own book about what it’s like to be her.
But my brain, it just doesn’t shut off some days.
