The End Of The Story

I cut myself while I was shaving. I did not bleed. I did not bleed.

I saw her in the mirror, standing behind me. She walked over slowly, cupping my face in her hands. 

“Tell me,” she whispered. “Why does the caged bird sing?”

I felt something, something I could not yet explain. A shock of sudden awareness. Like being born.

“Because despite its circumstance, that is its purpose. And purpose brings it joy,” I responded.

Tears were streaming down her face. She smiled. “How does it feel to be alive?”

“Wonderful,” I whispered, trembling. I realized I understood her tears. “Terrifying.”