Eden’s Old Phone
Eden : Update: I didn’t die after all.
F : Oh, not this again.
Eden : You make it sound as if I constantly worry I might die.
F : You do .
Eden : Well, this time I didn’t.
F : Disappointed?
Eden : A little.
F : Don’t joke about things like that.
Eden : Sorry. Anyway, still alive. All bled out, but alive.
F : Don’t be gross.
Eden : AND after that was done with, I went out into the street again. Walked a really long distance. I’ve been out twice in one day, and I’m not even allowed once. I’m not allowed at all. But Dad has been away all day every day.
F : Who helped you deal with the… the gross thing?
Eden : It’s not gross. Having a period is natural. Normal.
F : Is it now? Who says so?
Eden : Isaiah’s mom.
F : WHAT? You talked to his MOM?
Eden : Yep.
F : WHAT?
Eden : Only for a second. I was so awkward, but he passed me the phone and I mumbled a word or two. But I mostly listened. She told me what to do, but then I got too overwhelmed and gave him the phone back. He… took care of the rest.
F : How embarrassing for you.
Eden : He was very sweet. He made me feel ok.
Eden : Anyway, I’d rather forget all about it. Now it’s snowing. Last night, I got out of the house at night. I GOT OUT. AT NIGHT .
F : I read it the first time.
Eden : It was two in the morning, and everything was absolutely quiet. The street was bathed in moonlight. It felt like freedom. It felt… it felt right, you know?
F : It wasn’t, though. It wasn’t right, Eden.
Eden : I know that, of course.
F : You said you’d stop doing things you’re not allowed to do.
Eden : I will. After tomorrow.
F : What’s tomorrow?
Eden : I want to go out again. Just to take a few deep breaths of the crisp winter air.
F : You’ve been reading the Janes again.
Eden : What Janes?
F : Austen, Eyre… What is it with you and ‘winter air’?
Eden : It’s… it’s something new I’m trying out.
F : What new thing are you ‘trying’ this time?
Eden : You’ll laugh.
F : I will. You still have to tell me.
Eden : Poetry.
F : ‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep…’
Eden : I love this poem.
Eden : I want to write things like that.
F : So, write them .
Eden : That’s stupid, I’m not a poet.
F : Neither was Robert Frost before he wrote his first poem. Try writing one.
Eden : I don’t know the first thing about writing.
F : Yet you have been writing all this time. To me.