Words meant to protect
By the time Dora turned ten, time had already changed her in ways that frightened me. She was still a child—thin legs, quick laughter, curious eyes—but there was a quiet awareness in her now. The kind that doesn’t announce itself loudly. The kind that comes too early and settles too deep. I recognized it because I had once carried it myself, long before I was ready. And I knew something then: silence would not protect her. So I began to talk. Not all at once. Not harshly. I spoke to her gently, carefully, choosing words the way one handles fragile glass. Sometimes we talked while walking home from school, her small hand in mine. Sometimes at night, while I braided her hair slowly, strand by strand. Sometimes while she lay beside me, tracing invisible patterns on my arm, listening more
- Writer
