She kisses with forceful innocence. She presses her plump, puckered lips against mine, and nothing can pull my focus from that moment. I’m present. I’m awake. Here is life.

She has the saddest eyes, the kind that get wider when she cries. She cries often, and otherwise seems as if she’s on the verge. Where do you go, butterfly, when you stare off into space? It doesn’t seem like a happy place. I want to go with her, but I know I can’t. She’s not the trusting kind, yet.

I don’t mind: she’s worth the wait. A little girl from an Islamic country, she came to the US a year ago—alone. She’s read Descartes and knows three languages. She’s studious, intelligent, and focused. And she thinks she’s naive, ugly, and abnormal. I tell her otherwise, assure her she’s breathtaking, but my words don’t get through.

“Are you okay?”

She assures me, “yes,” but I don’t believe her. I know better. We’re so alike.

We’ve suffered similarly; we survive similarly: determined innocence, determined everything. And neither of us recognizes in ourselves the effort, the endurance, we test everyday. Perhaps in each other we see the strength we hope we have in ourselves. I hope I’m as smart as her, as capable as her, as good. She? I don’t know what it is she sees in me. Sam would say, it’s strength. I’m going to trust him to see the situation more clearly than I’m able. It’s difficult to see myself clearly. I suppose that’s why I write all this.

Besides, I want to believe that’s what it is. I want so badly for someone to confirm to me that I’m strong. People tell me, but I don’t trust them, so I don’t believe them.

Yet the other day, as I spoke to friends about my remembrance of exactly how Andy felt against me, inside me, I triggered something in one of them. They later told me they had suppressed that they, too, could remember their molester’s hands on them. I’m still weeping for them, mourning their minds. Who are these awful people that do these things to us?

Victims themselves.

Here, before me, was another one. Another wounded creature, struggling with their mind. I want to embrace them all, protect them all.

Yes, including her. But it’s different. I swear.

It’s enabling, you say. You’re making the same mistake you made with Clara.

No. Because she’s strong. She protests, and I press. I want to know, Butterfly. I want to know everything. Point to your wounds. I won’t forget there’s more to you than that.

Like vivacity. It refines her stance. She’s an Athena, sharpening her sword of knowledge. She’s coming for us all. She’ll be wearing jeans and heels.

And a great laugh. She giggles. But inside,

why.

It’s a scream in her head, too. And always,

“Let me help you.”

How can I not admire that? It’s so much who I’ve been, who I am, and who I want to be.

And more. So many things yet to know. Tell me more.

My gosh, she’s got my attention the way no one ever has.

What do you think of her?

Don’t answer. I’m trusting myself on this one. Every mess I get into is because I don’t trust myself. That stops now. I’m starting with her.