“I am.” She smiles. And for a moment, her eyes look a touch less dull.
She’ll never resemble that joyful little girl. Not by far, but thinking of our shared art rings her back from the brink of despair she teeters on. “I mainly write books though.”
I move my arm down. I hold her hand. She laces her fingers together with mine. “I do, too. Why do you write?”
“Because I feel I have to. If I don’t represent
people like me, no one will.” There’s a trace of old command
that returns as she says it. Her smile has been replaced by a look of determination. I’m just as glad to see it.
“Right. I get that.” I squeeze her hand and give her a nod. Not of
encouragement. She deserves my respect for lasting this long. “Keep at it. I’m sure things willl work out later.” She gives me a look too tired to be considered hopeful. I’m not afraid to meet her gaze. We have dull eyes and dark circles in common now. “Really? How do you know?”
I smile at her. “I don’t.” She looks confused, but she won’t let go of my hand. And she still walks with me. “Is that a good thing?”
“It is what it is.” We reach a bridge with no railings. I bring her to one
side, and we sit with our legs dangling just above the rush of the water. We watch it approach from some dark place deeper in the woods. It
disappears behind us, pouring into a lake that has no edges except for the muddy shore that runs beneath us.
