A woman came in for a massage today. Lovely lady. We got talking about the MH17 disaster, and she mentioned that one of the people on the plane was her daughter’s teacher. I asked how her daughter is coping. “Oh, devastated”, she said.
What’s that? A few degrees of separation. Feels strange to be that close, even though it seems so simple and matter of fact. The school is in the next suburb over. For all I know the teacher, or any of the victims from Melbourne, might have crossed paths with me.
I’m reading some of the stories about them. The incongruous thing is that they seem so normal. Of course they’re normal, but an event like this elevates them beyond that. Modest in life they find themselves the subject of newspaper articles and the inspiration for headlines, for what is really a random and tragic reason. They’re like my next door neighbours, except that they were selected for the most terrible fate.
Saddest are the families. There seem to be a number of complete families just wiped out. So unfair.
Can there be any doubt about the randomness of life? Right place/right time; wrong place/wrong time. My mate Whisky was on that very same flight a week before.