Why have I been silent all of these years? A quiet, sterile surface, afraid of not having answers, afraid of my own ignorance and privilege, afraid of ruffling feathers. I have been silent. Silent like tears falling at night, silent like a flower wilting to powder, silent like storm clouds brewing. Silent. But now, the
“Have I made enough progress? ” she asked, electric anxiety coursing through her words, and a certain familiar tremble in her voice. What is the true question, I wondered. Is she enough now? Is she worthy now, of love, of attention, of respect? Could she finally rest? Echoes of questions that I have posed to