The masking tape secures the gauze, but I want to make sure, so I take it round her head too. Once around. Twice. Thrice. Blond strands of hair get stuck to the tape. Her eyes are angry now. Her forehead turns red. But she still does not make noise. Her little feet that cannot touch the floor swing out from the chair just a little to let me know that if she hadn’t learned better she might throw a tantrum. But she has learned. I’ve taught her.
In one flash of divine grace, she manages in her silence to tell me that she is me. She is the little girl in me. The more I refuse to create, the more I silence her. I suffocate her. I inflict the violence simply by not picking up my pen.