Bricks

It wasn't until I walked upstairs that I saw the rain. It was painted against the sliding glass door and all the windows. I was then forced to be thankful for the bricks. The bricks of my house kept me warm and dry. Even though I long to be soaked with the rain, the bricks smile and say "No dear, you know what is better for you. You'll get sick running out there, and you've never been one to eat your fruits and vegetables."

I hate the bricks.

They stand there all high and mighty, acting like they know what's best. They forget what they've done: shattered windows, crushed bones, and built barriers. Who are they to tell me what to do when they have been so destructive? Are they trying to destroy me?

I whip the door open. "You can't hold me!" I scream as the rain is thrown down on my body, my hair is soaked and my mascara running. I dance, I sing, I laugh, I play, I do everything worthy of a white girl quote on Pinterest. I return inside with my shoulders broad and my head held high, just to show the bricks that I am okay. They just smile at me, but I know that I have won.

I wake up the next morning with a clogged nose and scratchy throat. I cannot go to school, and therefore have to be with the bricks all day. I scowl at them, because they're still smiling at me. My irritation reaches a new high, and I burst. "You're not perfect either! You can destroy and hurt and break, don't act like you're all good!" The brick's smile quivers, but quickly returns. "You're right. I have used myself for some pretty terrible things, and I can never take any of those back. But I have learned. I will never force you to listen to me, but I will always be here to be heard." I stop. I stare. I cry.

I sit sipping my tea, inside the bricks, watching the rain. "Man, I love the rain," I whisper. And (would you believe it?) the bricks smiled. "I know," they whisper back. I stay inside, and together, we smile.


Yours Truly,
Penelope Jude