Today, I found her seated on the floor, wetness on her face.
I am surprised she even let me see her in that way. It’s not like her.
Though I often hear her through my walls sobbing at night, every morning she walks out of her room, eyes dry as the Savannah.
Of course, it is only because I run into her room without knocking!
I had found some good news, or so I thought. Some good news to share with her. Unlike her, I shared too much.
She had learned to share as little as possible. She is always doing well. I could not fault her.
The closed doors had been many, too many. The conversations that ended with promises but only became extended conversations with others she had never given permission for.
For now, she had learned it was only God whose care was assured.
Why bother? she would mutter. They can’t help me anyway.
So she kept it all stored up inside and prayed as hard and cried as hard as she could on those hard floors.
Childhood had taught her to tell her silly stories to herself only. Now she wondered who would listen? Even to the serious ones?
They call her strong because those burdens are not shared. None willing to, not even me.
She turns her face away from me.
When she turns back, her face is dry, and her eyes tell me to pretend I walked into a darkened room.
Even good news needs good timing, so I decide to keep it stored inside too.
So I leave, closing the door.
She doesn’t call me back or come after me.
That’s good.
Otherwise, she would find me behind her door, hoping to hear what she so hides away from the world and only tells God.