Dumb Girl

Crisp moonlight cascaded down, blanketed brightly against the back of the black curtains of a corner apartment on a busy corner street. Searching for a way in, it had work to do here. Looking to penetrate the dome of artificial light Caroline tucked herself inside of. It longed to touch her, in its fullness, to rock her gently to sleep. Instead, she pulled her curtains taught. Not a sliver would find its way into her life. She knew to keep out the sounds and sights of distraction. Tuck herself away from the omnipresent beauty life offered her. Stifle the inspiration that mulled in her spirit, waiting to emerge. Brought on by small things, like a now pregnant moon. A bundle of baby stars. Ideas bigger than the galaxies.

Caroline was a smart girl. That’s what her mother told her. Reminded her day after day, guiding her with the premise that if she were to remain a smart girl, she must do smart girl things. Smart girls go to college. Smart girls remain desolate. Smart girls know they can’t create, become writers.

And thus, Carolines dreams were smothered, silently over years and years of gentle nudging by a mother who seemed to have done the opposite of what smart girls do. Allowing Caroline to assume that her mother was not smart. Was another dumb girl. Caroline dreaded the idea of being like her mother. So picky, so jaded, so generally unhappy it seeped out of her skin like a stench. Dumb girls are sad, so Caroline stayed on the path of intelligence. She went to college, got a degree in Biology. Planned for medical school. Smart girl.

What Caroline didn’t tell her mother was that she also took classes in Creative Writing. Wrote stories about brave girls, about dumb girls who were smart but didn’t know it, about silent girls. Girls who cry gently into their beds at night, but don’t always know why. Strong girls who wake up the next morning stiff and straight as if their chest wasn’t weighing them down and their pillow stained with their saltwater. Caroline began to understand who the dumb girls were. But by dumb, she really meant lonely. Misunderstood. Silent.

Caroline made friends as she got her masters in forensic science. Something her mother called silly, which to her was another word for dumb. The forensic science part. She didn’t mention the friends part, as that would be absurd, a waste of smart girls' time. As she neared the end of her 3rd degree Caroline told her she was going to be a medical examiner. A what? Her mother asked, dumbly. A medical examiner. A pathologist. A coroner. Her mother shuddered at each syllable as it formed on Carolines lips. Asked her about the loneliness of morgues. About how smart she mustn't be to make such a stupid move. It was the only time Caroline remembered her using such a harsh word for dumb. The only time Caroline recalled the implication she should no longer be alone, that soon smart girl must find a smart boy. Smart boys don’t work in basements. Smart boys don’t like the stench of death. Smart boys don't like smarter girls.

Caroline couldn’t tell her mother about her love of the body. Of the corpse. Of the stillness beneath their skin.The way they didn’t look at her as one thing or another. She could not let her mother know she wanted to tell stories for the deceased, in her own smart way. How she could be both doctor and dreamer. Both stupid and smart. But smart girl was silent girl, too.

Caroline was a very smart girl, and as she sat here now, in the dead of night, the books spilled open pouring out knowledge she must know so well it becomes part of her in order for her to remain smart. But the curtains called to her. They flitted as the moonlight toyed with their edges. They teased her with intimacy. A desire she could no longer withhold from herself. She stepped away from the books. From the desk. Away from the smartness of it all and opened the curtains to reveal the simplicity of a blurred moon. It sat far away in the sky, but its light grabbed her chin, caressed her. Called her something other than smart. Called her kind, yet alarming. Called her beauty. Called her writer. Reminded her that she was brave.

She stepped back towards the books, took a blank page instead. Caroline wrote a story that was incredibly dumb. It would never be read by anyone other than smart girl. But when she finished she held it up to moon and it smiled. It told her to keep going.

Caroline reverted, back to dumb girl. Back to youth. Back to the way fruit would sit exposed in her fridge, begging for flies, but they never came. The cold kept them away. Back to throwing sand dollars into the sea, to crying at the dead deer on the side of the road, only to be told she was too smart to mull over things as simple as death. Back to moon holding her, as if she were its own baby star.