"I'm allowed to cry," she whispered into the night, "I am allowed to cry."
And though she could she didn't. "I don't have to be strong always," she
told the silent darkness and, perhaps, herself, " I'm allowed to cry." And
she didn't. The tears flooded her eyes and threatened to spill but still,
she did not cry. She set her trembling chin and opened her eyes wide and
took on the expressionless face she wore around the others. "I'm allowed to
cry," she murmured to the tall, inexpressive woman in the mirror who said
the words along with her.
Some thirty years ago she said the same words, as a young girl with strawberry blond hair and an obstinate set of the chin and with held back tears glittering in her eyes. She said the words to herself when her brother was in a car accident and almost died. She said the words to herself at the berth of her baby sister, when the baby's blue eyes never opened and the perfect face under shining red-gold ringlets never stirred. And though she could cry she didn't.
Some twenty years ago she said the words again, as a young woman with reddish hair and an obstinate set of the chin and with held back tears glittering in her eyes. She said the phrase to herself as she shuddered with sadness and when tears came the closest to ever spilling out. And, again, although she could cry she didn't.
Some ten years ago she said the phrase again, as a woman who's idealism had almost died and would be rekindled slightly by a man who would, in turn, lose his, as a woman with light brown hair and weary eyes who didn't know what to do. She said the phrase to herself, to keep herself from crying about a lost childhood, to keep herself from crying about this awful reality where she didn't know what to do and she had no one to guide her. And, though she could cry, she didn't.
A year ago she said to herself the words again, as a woman with light brown hair and blood and tears and water on her shirt and fear in her eyes. She said the phrase to herself while one of her best friends lay on the operating table, life in the balance. She set her trembling chin and turned her tear filled eyes to the ceiling and said the words to herself. She said the words to herself with the desperation of a person who was falling towards the ground without a chance to survive, inevitably falling and crashing onto the rocks below. And, though she could cry, she didn't.
A year later she whispers the words to herself as a woman, not as the Press Secretary she had come to be always, but as a woman. A woman who had lived through life, death, shooting, tragedy, struggle, failure, and triumph, she said the words. A woman who knew life and it's intricacies but inside she felt she was still the little girl with strawberry-blond pigtails and an obstinate chin.
"I'm allowed to cry," she told herself firmly. But now it wasn't an assurance anymore, not a guarantee or an assertion, just a habit. That little girl had grown up, and she didn't know how or why, most certainly not when, but what happened was a man who was like her father had left the job to someone else and the little girl had grown up, never to return.
But she was wrong when she thought she had grown up then, because she hadn't. It had happened some thirty years ago, when most of the same lifespan as her were still children, and although she took the appearance of a little girl, she was the tall, vulnerable, seemingly infinitely strong woman in herself. The little girl grew up long before, but she didn't realize until today.
"I'm allowed to cry," she whispered into the night. And she did.
Some thirty years ago she said the same words, as a young girl with strawberry blond hair and an obstinate set of the chin and with held back tears glittering in her eyes. She said the words to herself when her brother was in a car accident and almost died. She said the words to herself at the berth of her baby sister, when the baby's blue eyes never opened and the perfect face under shining red-gold ringlets never stirred. And though she could cry she didn't.
Some twenty years ago she said the words again, as a young woman with reddish hair and an obstinate set of the chin and with held back tears glittering in her eyes. She said the phrase to herself as she shuddered with sadness and when tears came the closest to ever spilling out. And, again, although she could cry she didn't.
Some ten years ago she said the phrase again, as a woman who's idealism had almost died and would be rekindled slightly by a man who would, in turn, lose his, as a woman with light brown hair and weary eyes who didn't know what to do. She said the phrase to herself, to keep herself from crying about a lost childhood, to keep herself from crying about this awful reality where she didn't know what to do and she had no one to guide her. And, though she could cry, she didn't.
A year ago she said to herself the words again, as a woman with light brown hair and blood and tears and water on her shirt and fear in her eyes. She said the phrase to herself while one of her best friends lay on the operating table, life in the balance. She set her trembling chin and turned her tear filled eyes to the ceiling and said the words to herself. She said the words to herself with the desperation of a person who was falling towards the ground without a chance to survive, inevitably falling and crashing onto the rocks below. And, though she could cry, she didn't.
A year later she whispers the words to herself as a woman, not as the Press Secretary she had come to be always, but as a woman. A woman who had lived through life, death, shooting, tragedy, struggle, failure, and triumph, she said the words. A woman who knew life and it's intricacies but inside she felt she was still the little girl with strawberry-blond pigtails and an obstinate chin.
"I'm allowed to cry," she told herself firmly. But now it wasn't an assurance anymore, not a guarantee or an assertion, just a habit. That little girl had grown up, and she didn't know how or why, most certainly not when, but what happened was a man who was like her father had left the job to someone else and the little girl had grown up, never to return.
But she was wrong when she thought she had grown up then, because she hadn't. It had happened some thirty years ago, when most of the same lifespan as her were still children, and although she took the appearance of a little girl, she was the tall, vulnerable, seemingly infinitely strong woman in herself. The little girl grew up long before, but she didn't realize until today.
"I'm allowed to cry," she whispered into the night. And she did.