"I think I'm here to restore karma in the world. I try to do right by folks. It’s like... if I can balance the scales, maybe my girl’s somewhere peaceful."
Today, I met Jacklyn while walking my dog. She was sitting on a bench under the shade of an old cottonwood tree.
My dog trotted up to her, tail wagging, and she laughed, reaching down to scratch behind his ears.
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| Photo credits: Thomas Elliott |
"Well, hello there, handsome," she said, her voice warm but weathered. "I used to have a dog like this, years ago. Best company I ever had."
I smiled. "He seems to think you’re pretty great too. Mind if we sit for a minute?"
"Suit yourself," she said, patting the empty spot beside her. "I was just enjoying the sun. Gotta soak it up while you can."
We fell into easy conversation. I asked if she was from around here, and that's when her story began to unfold.
"Moved to Santa Fe after my daughter was killed in Denver," she said quietly, eyes fixed on the horizon. "That was back in '97. She was just 25. Shot to death, can you believe that? For nothing. Nothing at all."
There was a pause, heavy with the weight of years. I didn’t know what to say, so I just listened.
Jacklyn rolled up her pant leg, revealing a faded tattoo. It was her daughter’s face, young and smiling, inked into her skin like a promise never to forget.
"Got this tattoo the year after she died," she said, running her fingers over it. "Hurt like hell, but not as much as losing her.
And this—" she reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a small, well-loved stuffed bunny, its fur worn thin in places—"was her favorite. Carried it around even when she was grown. Twenty-five years old, still holding on to this silly thing. I guess now it’s my turn to hold on."
My dog rested his head on her knee, as if he somehow understood the moment.
"Do you have family here?" I asked gently.
Jacklyn shook her head. "Nope. Haven’t had a significant other in 30 years. Never wanted to try again after my heart got broke the first time.
But you know what?" She leaned in, eyes bright despite the sadness. "I think I'm here to restore karma in the world. I try to do right by folks. Hold doors open, say kind words, feed the birds. Little things. It’s like... if I can balance the scales, maybe my girl’s somewhere peaceful."
The conversation shifted after that, lighter somehow, like sharing her truth had eased the weight she carried.
When I stood up to leave, she smiled and added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and don’t bother asking about vaccines. I’m not getting any. God will take me when He’s ready, and that’s that."
We laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was so perfectly Jacklyn—tough, tender, and fiercely sure of her place in the world.
As I walked away, I glanced back. There she sat, bunny in her lap, face tilted toward the sun, living proof that grief doesn’t end you—it just teaches you how to love differently.
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