Chilanga Sprinkles

Today she is more girl than woman. Her stare is distant, her face tense and controlled. Her jaw bulges under the strain. She never verbalizes emotion, not because she doesn’t know how, but because she is a private person. I know this is not anger. When she is angry, her stare is cold. With trepidation, I say, “You are not ok today.” Not a question. A statement I hope shows my affection for her and my respect for her privacy. Her white face blotches pink and red. Looking at no one, she speaks, her voice monotone, but threatening to break: “My grandpa died yesterday.” Her blue eyes glisten with tears that never fall. She brings the heels of her hands up to her face, and pressing them against her eyes, she wipes the moisture away before it has a chance to overflow. Before her cheeks streak with salty trails. A deep breath later, she is safely in control again. I offer the prescribed words of comfort, the ones that comfort no one, and we begin our work day.