(no subject)
the wind is forceful today. it acts of its own accord. it has a plan and a goal and its plan is to bring the rain and thunder south to us. but the water hasn't fallen yet.
lots of girls sit here in the lounge, doing homework, smiling at their computers, twirling their hair, dozing off. the most motion in this room comes from the curtains pushed by the wind. swaying like a willow's arms.
a fat woman in a faded green tshirt sits on a couch and soon a black girl - a student - sits down on the adjacent couch. soon the girl is going over her life, talking normally and not in a loud whisper. things about a distant father, a single mother. drunkenness and gambling and drugs. jail and summer camp. she speaks so comfortably. there's emotion in her words but she's not uncomfortable as this woman prods and quietly asks questions, clearly a therapist. or imitating one well.
the wind never ceases though at times it makes a whisper. when it picks up and howls through windows, making papers shoot up in flight, when it howls and separates strands of our hair, and even when it howls and howls and rattles the window i can still hear the girl talking. now about a sister, pregnancy, pension, tuition.
i wonder not only how her voice, unraveling and unpacking a life, can test the wind, unmerciful and unforgiving, when mine, most often and especially in telling a life that it owns, can barely make a whisper, can barely test the sound of a sun rising.
lots of girls sit here in the lounge, doing homework, smiling at their computers, twirling their hair, dozing off. the most motion in this room comes from the curtains pushed by the wind. swaying like a willow's arms.
a fat woman in a faded green tshirt sits on a couch and soon a black girl - a student - sits down on the adjacent couch. soon the girl is going over her life, talking normally and not in a loud whisper. things about a distant father, a single mother. drunkenness and gambling and drugs. jail and summer camp. she speaks so comfortably. there's emotion in her words but she's not uncomfortable as this woman prods and quietly asks questions, clearly a therapist. or imitating one well.
the wind never ceases though at times it makes a whisper. when it picks up and howls through windows, making papers shoot up in flight, when it howls and separates strands of our hair, and even when it howls and howls and rattles the window i can still hear the girl talking. now about a sister, pregnancy, pension, tuition.
i wonder not only how her voice, unraveling and unpacking a life, can test the wind, unmerciful and unforgiving, when mine, most often and especially in telling a life that it owns, can barely make a whisper, can barely test the sound of a sun rising.