Sending packages on a bi-direction one-way street (separate but equal)
And so I tell her everything, even when she doesn’t ask, because it’s what she needs to hear. She can only tell me of her days and of the happenings, but I have told her that they are insignificant. So instead she listen with both ears and her mind to me, so that she may learn. I say more words than I would in the course of a normal day, but my ideas are suddenly concrete when she is listening.
And they mean something.
She does not have the eyes that will see the world yet, but she is gaining them with every day. She does not know what she could become. We sit and speak quiet words to eachother and the light dims for us; the sun sinks for us. The world is soft here, the whole of it. And finally here she is genuine.
I do not know who she is, and she has agreed that she has not told me. After the days disappear more and I learn the questions to ask, she will tell me her identity and her secrets, which are perhaps the same.
When a special day comes, I will remember all that I have told her because she will be the words as well as their meaning.
