I watched her write. Sitting under the small window that opened more towards the empty space inside. Hair tied back, feet on top of each other, she sat straight, muttering words under her breath. I watched her as she chose words, spoke them and typed them on her laptop. Here is how she wrote them, sentences that look carved, words that look brought to life with one wave of the wand, colors that she sees in the sounds made, I’s that effortlessly look like shes’ and hers’, here is where she remembers the I, and the them.

One after another, words fall out on her lap and she gathers them into a bundle and weaves her story. Now and then, she looks down, pausing to consider hesitations pushed by memory. Her narrative, unpretentious, like her. Her hands full of wisdom, itching with desire to write, her eyes, full of words, patient to come out yet shining from within. Her words, like the voice of the conscience, unhurried and wise. 

Her words glide, like she does. They don’t burst, they don’t make noise, they don’t look heavy, but they have weight. They are light and calm like her eyelashes when she blinks, her eyebrows unworried and concentrating, rarely furrowed in thought. Her lips do the thinking and her eyes do the storytelling while her face draws a calm blanket. 

She looks at me watching her, her face opening up into a smile, big, and welcoming of conversations had the day before. In passing, we acknowledge each other, she is writing and so am I. We smile at this shared moment of truth before getting back to our own stories.