She stands before me, hood up, hair over an eye... silent.
I say good-bye to all and we are walking down the stairs. The mist
gathers around us turning the world to a mysterious place lacking the
luster and shine that often greets us on a weekend afternoon.
"How was ballet?" I ask, knowing that something is off and yet, given
her sadness at my parents departure, I am not sure if it is a
lingering sadness or something different.
"Good."
The monosyllable answer tells me nothing and yet everything.
"Are you okay?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
In my house, in our relationship, this is a perfectly okay answer. It
allows distance, privacy, and time to come to terms with whatever is
happening.
"Okay, but I need to know a few things. Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Did someone hurt you?"
"No"
"Would I be upset?"
"No."
"Did you get into trouble?"
"No, but I said I don't want to talk about it."
We walk on. I know that I have to let it go, and let her decide when
she is ready to talk. I know that she will tell me when she is ready;
she will talk when things have settled. I have to trust that, if it
were something significant, she would tell me.
In silence, we walk. Through the mist we walk. The day, the mist,
the gray sky around us...the world reflects her feelings and fills my
heart with a touch of wonder - I wonder if this child knows how much I
love her and how wonderful I believe her to be?