How I loved and how I hated the freedom in her voice, the lightness in her step. She got to be her, and I didn’t. I wanted her to understand, but words only clanked like hammer blows on the anvil. Her eyes fell sad, as if every meaning had. Hearing not my words, but hers, she seemed to catch debris from emotion’s chaotic surface, a litany of blame, scratching and stinging my eardrums like invisible briars. Her voice slammed down, like an ugly garage door then softened as purple night-lights shined on it in a kind of tough love, like a stern, corrective parent. I sensed a starved desire, maybe a security measure, as one delicate and easily saddened. But when I tried to comfort, she bit like a wounded dog at its veterinarian. So I took it all in, while she took my reluctance and created indifference I fell silent to protect her from ratchety thoughts.