I’m seven years old, sitting amidst grey walls, staring at the smiling old woman. She tells me to smile and that I look prettier when I do—psychologist; too heavy of a word for such a young child. She tells me everything will be fine, but it will take time. Smiling takes less effort, I learned, and I keep that in mind for the rest of my life. I love you, I whisper to her because she does understand. And she does care, she does give her ear to the dilemma of a seven-year-old sad a little too early in her life. I’m nine years old when I walk into my mother crying. Her face was blotched with the weight of…
Whispers of Love
