name: amber
age: 22
location: new orleans
aim: sapgirly mail work
April 28, 2004
"Pity me," said she to the man.
"And why should I pity you?" he replied.
"Because my heart is torn."
"Can you not see that I also am sad?"
"Oh no," said the girl, "I am more than sad. My depression is profound and I am so lost I cannot even see about me."
"Open your eyes," said the man, "You do not value your youth as you should. Such soft skin, such pretty hair. No one would pity you that has so much."
"Then I truly am lost because there is only one thing I most need."
"What is that?"
"A new home."
"What of your other?"
"They loved me there. I was safe though sometimes uncomfortable. I have created my own miseries."
"Then you are to be pitied by no one but yourself."
"This is my fate."
-----
I have watched her all afternoon from across the street. First, she pulls back the shade to look out on the street. Then she draws them and sits staring out the window for a short time, before closing the blinds again. Soon she will emerge through the door and place herself somewhere on the porch. It has been the decrepit sofa, a wicker chair, the steps and once today on the railing overlooking her flowers. She closes the door softly behind her to go back inside. The heat is tremendous this time of year. I am one of the few that does not mind.
I know what she wants, that girl. Or perhaps she thinks herself a woman. But she is not a woman. She is not a woman because what she wants is a saviour. Someone tall and dark and moody to approach her and ask her what is wrong. This girl, this girl that would call herself a woman, she wants to be saved by the hands and arms of a boy because she does not yet understand what it means to want a man. She is scared and she is lonely but she is wrong. To behave this way, to put herself out there for everyone to see or no one to see, it will make her crazy. She will wait forever but he will never come. I see time passing for her. I see, from where I sit, that she has waited for a long time already. I see that she has not grown up.
"You are wrong!" I shout at her but she does not understand. She does not see what I want her to see. Instead she crosses the street.
"What do you mean?" She asks me. I am now the one to save her. I am the one to make her whole, to connect her, to prove to her that there is a point. Only I am not this man. My hands are too old to be of use; my arms not strong enough for her.
"You are wrong to wait. He is not coming. You will wait forever and still, he will not come. Get off your porch."
She doesn't move at this but I can tell she is surprised that I knew her thoughts. Maybe I have seen her journal? But I have not seen her journal except on the rare occasion she brings it outside to write with. On those days she is especially distraut. On those days she wishes for her boy even more.
"I wish it would rain," she says and walks away.
