There is always a crack in everything.

The air was heavy this July. The neighborhood felt as if it were in slow motion. Rosa’s front door was covered in a beaded condensation that formed small trickling waterfalls down the outside wood. Protruding, laminated flyers for the car wash down the street, acted as cups to host little pools where fairies might go to get cool. A cream colored letter hung from the slot in the door, its corners moving up and down, up and down with the breeze outside. A small tear on its end, showed signs of being mishandled - forced through the letter slit angrily like an unwanted home truth. Two leaflets for the Sunday market down the street, and the chicken shop’s discount menu, sandwiched it just enough to keep its form in tact.

It took Rosa a full day to notice the letter was even there. She was away in her mind in places inaccessible for a longtime, and she was enjoying the mental vacation.  A lot had changed for Rosa, in a very short space of time. And even though she knew that change was always coming, when it does, it always catches you off guard.

This was the third time she just sat, in her living room, staring at this one place in the wall, that her mother swore she saw a perfect set of Mickey Mouse ears. Her mother’s reaction to that discovery was like she had seen the Mother Madonna in blood – some kind of apparition that required a press release. Rosa smiled at the thought. A pang of loss sucker punched her in the stomach almost knocking her to the floor, taking stacks of paperwork with her. The noise startled her just enough for the moment to grab her focus. Rosa jumped to her feet, almost becoming nauseous with the forcefulness she commanded of her body. Determined to get something productive done today, she flung herself towards the crumpled bouquet of papers hanging in the door -the pools of water ran down her hands as she grabbed them as if they would dematerialize if she waited another moment.

He let out a shallow and empathic sigh at the sight of Rosa looking so lost and listless. His eyelashes almost stuck to the plaster in the wall as he held his gaze, not blinking, like his observation of her was what kept her still standing. Usually he would be more conscious of the sounds he was making out of respect to Rosa. He would be concerned that the tiny hole in her kitchen that he watched her from would be exposed, his intentions misinterpreted - but in this moment, it felt like there was no wall between them. To Daniel, he was there and she needed him to be there, fully present and alert.

There were so many times he would slide along the wall to find the approximate location of her head, wanting only to console her as she quietly sobbed after the apartment was quiet with the neighborhood sleeping. Memories flashed before him of the days he would listen to Rosa telling her mother ridiculous made up stories about other dimensions where they could all breathe underwater. They would laugh long and deep.

Daniel knew that what Rosa had was a gift –an uncanny ability to make others feel connected when the dark had converted them to sorrow, when they had forsaken God or hope. Before he moved to 182 Claymont Road, he was one of those people, tragically cut off, forgotten and abandon. It was because of her that he captured a scrap of nourishment in the deep red famine he called his life, and managed to gather enough sustenance to even consider starting life again. He felt slightly ashamed. He asked Rosa for forgiveness under his breath.

On Daniel’s brow dripped evidence of record temperatures for this part of the country. He wiped his forehead with a perfectly folded red handkerchief, determined to keep his balance on the small side table he stood on. It was just too hot for this pose to be maintained and the idea of him not keeping to his very tight schedule, concerned him. He scrambled to write a few more details in his little black book. Chicago was just hours away and she hasn’t even opened the envelope yet.  

In a neat, and almost intentional pile, Rosa had dropped the majority of the paper once in her hands, to the floor. The pools turned into mud paper mache crumbles forming sandcastles on the tile. The cream envelope was still in tact. She placed it gently on the counter top next to the plant she never watered.

"Right here we go", she thought. Inevitably her palms were sweaty, wondering what kind of paperwork she had to fill out next. It was odd that her mother seemed to get more attention in death than she ever did in life. 

With more force than she had intended, she tore open the envelope. Unfortunately for her, the document ripped in half.  She held the bits of paper tightly together, gritting her teeth as to inflict some kind of punishment for her carelessness. As her eyes began to focus on the contents, words like “gratitude”, and “fortunate” began to pop out from the page. The words she noticed were so far from what she expected that she had to start reading it from the beginning– she held the two halves in her hands, trembling with nervousness and excitement.  

Dear Rosa,  

You won’t know me and it is probably better that way.

I know it sounds so strange to say, but you have influenced my life in ways you probably can’t even imagine. 

This must be so weird to hear, but I have so much gratitude for the fortunate position I found and find myself in – as someone who was influenced by your kindness.

It’s a lot to explain now. Maybe one day, I can explain more.

For now I just wanted to say thank you. And give you this. Because I know no one else more deserving.

You should know that there are not many people in the world like you.  

Take care of yourself Rosa.   

As she unfolded the last of the sodden and stained page a perfectly dry cashiers check floated like a dry leaf towards the floor. It took several minutes for her to register what she was looking at. Hunched over and frozen, she stared at the check, waiting for her eyes to resume proper focus so her brain could reengage.

 “$20,000. $20,000? $20,000! What how why?Wait!” She read the letter again. “What? How? No!” She read the letter again. “Seriously,no way…no way”, she whispered. She read the letter again, and again and again and again, afraid to pick up the check with her hands.  The shock had hit her system and there was no hope for her to resume proper human function for the time being.  

As if intentionally timed, a cab honked his horn outside. Tears streamed down Daniel’s face as his hand pressed the grey, striped wallpaper in his bedroom one last time to support his view of Rosa. His eyelashes stuck to the plaster above the hole in the wall as he took one last long glance at her, his eyesight blurry with sticky water – as she stood very still, stunned by the letter, cashier check in hand.

On Daniel’s face was the largest smile he had ever felt himself make. He wished he could live in this moment for the rest of his life – a bitter sweetness of unconditional love, half deep and moving sadness, and half intense and soaring joy. Out of his mouth came a genuine laugh, and the frankness of the volume and the elation in the tone surprised him.

Rosa turned and looked in his direction. He didn’t move, terrified that she saw him. "What would she think?", he thought. For a second Daniel could convince himself that they had locked eyes.

The car horn beeped again and snapped him back to Chicago, and the promises it held for him. It took everything to push himself away from the hole in the wall and from Rosa. Life shoved him forward into the last parts of his chapter at 182 Claymont Road. Tears met his mouth, stinging the corners, tasting salty and feeling confusing.

 Daniel lifted his quite refined leather bag that his grandfather gave him. In it, were the only things he wanted to take. His eyes scanned the bones of his apartment; he knew he wouldn’t see it again. With a loud sigh, he opened his front door. Outside the air was thick and electric. Mothers watched their kids open hydrants in the street. A long grasshopper stood its ground against a shiny blue beetle on his driveway.

The car beeped again. He walked faster now, towards the passenger side door of the car. Rosa’s silhouette still stood in the same spot, the sunlight framing her body. She was still holding the letter and he could make out a faint smile, even from that far away.

 “Thanks for waiting” he said to the driver. He flung his bag on the seat next to him with an enthusiasm he had not felt in a long time. He closed the door of the car, turning the window down, to allow the perfect view of the last of Rosa.

As the car drove away, he smiled. From his pocket he pulled his black book –one last thing to write: an ending.  

This human being called Rosa,capable of healing people through walls, I left, standing holding my letter. This story is for all the people out there that do so much good in this world, and think these deeds will never be recognized, you never know – you might move in next to a Daniel, who invades your privacy completely, to keep a record of your kindness.

There's a crack in everything you see. In the darkest hour, there will be a crack. And that is how the light gets through. It is up to us to see it, and hold onto it until we find ourselves on level land.

"Onto Chicago", he thought. "I know we will find a publisher deserving of Rosa's story there."