The phone rings again. my eyes flick to her face involuntarily. They scrutinise, looking for the slightest sign of a grimace.
I'll snatch the phone away if it's any of them, I promise myself.
but it isn't.
I'm glad
She breezes out of rooms one after the other, the scent of freshly laundered clothes wafting in with her and remaining behind. The phone stays tucked between tilted chin and the crease of her neck. Her eyes are pink tinged but her voice is clear.
She knows how to hide.
It almost hurts to see her strength.
It;s a little while later and she's on the couch, fiddling with the corner of her top, staring out of the window. Her face is contorted in a motley of anger, pain and loss, now that she thinks no one's looking.
Her eyes let go of silent tears.
The phone lies innocently beside her, thrown almost unconsciously but every beep of an incoming message makes her jump.
I want to hug her.
But she won't allow herself a weak moment. Not even now.
She's a mess of salty tears and red splotches and lips bitten and torn.
She's breaking down.
And she's still beautiful.
She thinks she deserves it somehow, even if her words deny it.
Why else would her own mother, her own brother hurt her like that?
They lie and throw powerful,
evil words at her and I can't stop them, how do I?
and I'm too young, she tells me when I try
to tell her, some people are just bad.
She talks fighting words, masking ( partially) the quiver in her voice.
So I go along with it, change the topic.
Banter on about the location of my towel and
must I roam about with naked ears and neck?
I must, I tell her, I tease and laugh.
All the while fighting not to say the words,
Mumma, please don't cry, please tell me how to make it all right?
