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"The Girl Who Couldn't Cry," short story excerpt

Tuesday 12/14/21

The girl was a soldier. The girl was a sun. The girl was a question that asked for help. The girl was a friend who forgave. The girl was an enemy who put aside enmity. The girl was sustenance. The girl was charity. She was the impetus of a basket of food for a family who needed it from a family that couldn’t much spare it. She was true words for a person who had to hear them, even if that cost their speaker. She was a phone call in the middle of the night. She was the hand that answered it. She was within the nurse who had seen so much and didn’t want to see anything more but would, and arrived earlier the next day. She was the next day. She was the memories that cut to and through bone and allowed the life to leak out from the marrow. She walked within the hearts of untold numbers of people who exited, slumped and broken, from rooms where the loves of their lives had died. She was the bottle put back down on the table because maybe it wasn’t too late. The syringe that would not make another hole in flesh. The girl was a warrior. She put her face, her front, her eyes into every last wind of resistance when it’d been asked of her. When she’d been tasked. Summoned. Stumbled upon. She was the shadow sound of loneliness, the beat of the heart that suggests, in a fraction of a second, that maybe someone else is in the room, or could be, will be. And the keeping going. Until and if then.


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