She is silent.
And the list of advice grows long.
"She let this happen."
"She made that choice a long time ago."
"She is so stubborn."
Or,
"Someone has to."
"You have to allow it."
"I just don't know what to do."
All the contradictory advices,
She is still silent.
Even if I walked thirteen hundred miles on crutches. Or burned out several hundred scooter batteries just to arrive.
She would still be silent. Or terribly fearful. Or making things up.
So, I have to ask her as she was, not as she is.
Go back in time.
And ask *the person she was,* what I should do.
And as hazy as that answer is, the one thing came through clear:
"Do not sit silent and let this happen to me," she says, back in time, in the wayback machine.
"Do not sit silent and let this happen to me."
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Dedicated to my ninth grade creative writing teacher, Mr. Bunsey, who continually kicked me in the shins, by waving his feet while he sat on top of his desk, and decided, when I submitted my first work, that because I was a non-standard girl, a girl with impairments, that I had to have made it up.
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