Why Adam Knew
Standing in the hallway with a box of discarded papers, Joan found herself, yet again, arguing with God.
"Okay, fine, those things are beautiful, and it doesn't even matter that we don't know who did them. They last forever anyway. I get that. But this isn't Notre Dame. This is just something Grace wrote. And she won't even let me put it in the yearbook--she won't let anyone see it. What's the point of having me find it, if it isn't even getting published?"
"So you think that it doesn't matter, at all, unless it goes into the yearbook? You think those words don't matter unless everyone sees them?"
"You told me to join the yearbook. Then you said I was looking for something of value. So I thought. . . I needed to find something important, and get it out to people, so I tried. It didn't work. I failed. And you're telling me I did a good job? You're telling me I'm done?"
"Joan. Listen to me. Sometimes, when you have something--a gift, a burden, a secret, an idea--sometimes it's not about telling everybody. Some things don't have to be shared with the universe--sometimes, it's enough for just one person to know."
"You had me join the yearbook, humiliate myself, go through the garbage, and push away my mother just so I'd know that Grace can write poetry?"
He smiled then, shaking his head slightly. "Joan, think for a minute. What was the poem about?
"It was. . . it was about losing somebody. Losing a friend. How they. . . um, how people can drift away from you, and you don't have the words to. . .to get them back."
"Exactly. And, Joan, if too much time passes, sometimes it becomes impossible to get them back, at all. Sometimes, you lose them if you don't try soon enough." She nodded, thinking of the rift between her father and his brother. The man at her side met her eyes, and continued. "And how did you learn that it was Grace who wrote that poem?"
Joan began speaking, her voice dismissive and light, then suddenly fell silent as it all took shape before her--the photos, the garbage, the tattered scrap of paper and the sad-eyed boy who knew exactly what it meant. Grace's words from months ago played back within her mind--"He was a different person before his mother died. We were... we were close back then. We'd hang out together. Do things together. You know: we could talk," At that moment, across Arcadia, Grace opened the door to find Adam standing on her porch, with a paper boat in his hand.
Standing in the hallway with a box of discarded papers, Joan found herself, yet again, arguing with God.
"Okay, fine, those things are beautiful, and it doesn't even matter that we don't know who did them. They last forever anyway. I get that. But this isn't Notre Dame. This is just something Grace wrote. And she won't even let me put it in the yearbook--she won't let anyone see it. What's the point of having me find it, if it isn't even getting published?"
"So you think that it doesn't matter, at all, unless it goes into the yearbook? You think those words don't matter unless everyone sees them?"
"You told me to join the yearbook. Then you said I was looking for something of value. So I thought. . . I needed to find something important, and get it out to people, so I tried. It didn't work. I failed. And you're telling me I did a good job? You're telling me I'm done?"
"Joan. Listen to me. Sometimes, when you have something--a gift, a burden, a secret, an idea--sometimes it's not about telling everybody. Some things don't have to be shared with the universe--sometimes, it's enough for just one person to know."
"You had me join the yearbook, humiliate myself, go through the garbage, and push away my mother just so I'd know that Grace can write poetry?"
He smiled then, shaking his head slightly. "Joan, think for a minute. What was the poem about?
"It was. . . it was about losing somebody. Losing a friend. How they. . . um, how people can drift away from you, and you don't have the words to. . .to get them back."
"Exactly. And, Joan, if too much time passes, sometimes it becomes impossible to get them back, at all. Sometimes, you lose them if you don't try soon enough." She nodded, thinking of the rift between her father and his brother. The man at her side met her eyes, and continued. "And how did you learn that it was Grace who wrote that poem?"
Joan began speaking, her voice dismissive and light, then suddenly fell silent as it all took shape before her--the photos, the garbage, the tattered scrap of paper and the sad-eyed boy who knew exactly what it meant. Grace's words from months ago played back within her mind--"He was a different person before his mother died. We were... we were close back then. We'd hang out together. Do things together. You know: we could talk," At that moment, across Arcadia, Grace opened the door to find Adam standing on her porch, with a paper boat in his hand.