Noted and Forgotten

She cried again last night. As usual I had nothing to say but pat her to sleep. Almost two and a half years of continued weeping at night. Shouldering the burden of soothing a 7-year-old, what wisdom does a 10-year-old have to bring it to a stop. Lying next to me, sharing a single bed “Akka, where is mommy?”, the same question asked repeatedly, drowned only by the whir of the fan keeping us cool on  sweltering summer nights.   Looking at her this morning, you would never know the existence of her nightly griefs. Grandma held her hand whilst we both waited for our 6 a.m. school bus. Her short curly hair, dark blue primary pinafore, white shoes, slouching under the weight of her school bag pregnant with heavy textbooks, she looks so ordinary. Or maybe not, we both were unusually skinny and scrawny. Something we have constantly been made fun of at school; a few more years later down the line when we both approached puberty the bullying is only made worse for being flat chested. God