I don’t know whether to be sad or scared

Day one of daycare is over; today is for gathering all the stuff together that we have yet to organize. Blankets, clothes, extra diaper and wipes are being obtained and a little photo collage will be not so craftily taped together tonight for the Family Wall.

But, really, there is only one thing being discussed at work and on the news today. And that is death.

Forget the bitchy people body slamming themselves into other passengers to get onto a fully packed skytrain [and if I ever see you again, lady, I now have a mouthful ready for you]. In the past couple of weeks, murder and violent attacks have been the sole focus of the local news teams. [okay, the soaring loonie has made an appearance or two as has the weather, but only a limited presence in comparison.]

How is it that, in such a short timeline, my idyllic, mellow west coast city has gone to gang killings and bloody revenge for slights of traffic courtesy? What undisclosed trigger pissed everyone off? What insanity suddenly made this all a good idea?

Murders happen. A few every year – there are, after all, stats for that sort of thing. But when you can’t do your job for fear of getting killed or drive home, carefree, because you might get stabbed or you manage to get shot in front of your house so that your 10 year old daughter is the one who calls 911, then something, somewhere, has gone so very wrong that adjectives only make mock of it.

My parents left this urban area when I was nearly three because of their concerns over drug use and crime – nearly laughable concerns, as far as I was concerned when I was growing up. Their fears were alive and well in Small Town, too. But, now, I’m starting to see where they might have been coming from.

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