There are some days, she wishes she never found the note. She wishes she had walked by it, thought of a piece of trash, and threw it away. She keeps it with her, always tucked in her breast pocket, close to her heart. It’s pages have been folded over and over, the crease is beginning to break, the ink beginning to fade on the edges where her fingers have left their marked.
She can feel its words overtaking every moment of her life, every breath that she takes, every decision she makes, every moment when she says something, she never would’ve said before. The note has told her she doesn’t need to be silent. The note has told her that she is worth something. Before it, she was quiet, she was meek. She showed up, day-to-day, and did what needed to be done. She didn’t know that there was more, or if she did, she refused to admit it.
She doesn’t even know who left the note. She found it on her rounds, cleaning. Was it the woman in 2A? The one whose family never came, who spent all days alone, but seemed better for it. A woman at the end of her life, who finally found the peace she never had while she was living. Was it the young girl in 3B, who died fighting, gone too early from this world. A girl who laughed, loved, surrounded by those who helped her fight. A girl who never knew what life could be she doesn’t know. But she knows it was a woman. No man would write those words.
She looks at the note now, the words are printed on her memory, and much of part of her as the blood and her veins and the oxygen in her lungs. It is only 10 words, but there are 10 words that will change her world forever.
“In the end, there was only I. I was enough.”
She worried that the house would catch fire Or the light bulbs would explode She worried that the lawn would die Or deer would eat her flowers She worried the chicken would go bad Or the tomato sauce would be too salty She worried the roof would leak Or the window would crack She worried about everything So she didn’t have to worry about anything that mattered
She was fragile, as all babies are fragile. Her neck, so weak, so small couldn’t hold her head up high. So she, like all babies, depended on others To give her life, to give her love.
But she grew as all children grow, her neck grew strong. She held her head high, she searched for futures in hidden corners, she discovered the history of the past in the dirt. And so baby became a child.
And unfortunately, child became woman, and woman was taught to hang her head, to bend her neck to fit under the statute of others, she was taught that a head held high was not a woman thing, she was growing up in a world built only for men. And so woman coward, woman became nothing.
But woman too would not last and as woman grew older as her spine shrunk and curled her neck strengthened, her head began to lift as woman realized she could rise above the restriction of men.
And then those last moment as the woman’s body was giving up, She held her neck strong she held her head high in her heart she has nothing to ever be ashamed of.
The sun grew tired of many things It grew tired of watching civilizations rise and fall for men who never stood for truth It grew tired of villages destroying others over long forgotten gods It grew tired of cities burning under the weight of an inevitable figure The sun grew weary of seeing men squander its light
