Yesterday, right before the city removed it, I visited Jane Creba's memorial outside the Foot Locker on Yonge St. for the first time. Here, the day after another J.C.'s birthday, the 15-year-old girl died, suddenly, stupidly, senselessly. Flowers, teddy bears, a little Grover doll, photos, poems, a binder full of private messages climbed up the store's front window.
I paused and thought as hopeful thoughts as I could.
Here's what struck me most. Someone had written:
on a piece of brown cardboard and stuck it in the window. But the mound of flowers and baseball caps and dolls had grown so high that it covered the bottom of the cardboard sign, and a bouquet obscured part of its message. So it read:
Yes, I thought. The outpouring of love from Jane Creba's family and friends and potential friends had overwhelmed the rage and left a different, more probing, more frustrating question behind.
And I don't know. And I don't expect anyone in the debate tonight to know either. There are no answers, really, for the death of a girl, except to go and pay your respects silently for a few minutes, then get on the subway and head home.