The Cherry Robbers

by Sarai Walker

Women are raised to be accommodating, so I suppose a woman who draws clear lines that others are not allowed to cross becomes remarkable for that fact alone.

When you live in defiance of yourself, you can adapt to your circumstances, but remnants of who you are at your core remain. A bit of wildness that can’t be tamed.

When I have moments like this, when the darkness suffocates me, I need to hold on to something more powerful than myself.

This story is jagged, could cut a deep wound. It isn’t a story I can tell with a thread and a needle, stitching in clean lines. It’s shards or nothing.

The wedding day was always the end of her story. We were the epilogue.

Sleep was like the sound a mouse makes as it scratches behind the walls, only the walls were inside my brain. Scratch, scratch. I heard it all day long, but I couldn’t reach it.

In the words of Emily Dickinson: The Horror welcomes her, again.

“It’s easier to say that women like my mother are crazy. Then you don’t have to listen to them. And so maybe in a way she became crazy. Maybe she could communicate only by screaming.”

Haunted mother, haunted daughter.

I’d never made much space for men in my life, but they’re useful to have around when heavy lifting is required.

we were high on freedom, two young women in love, beholden to no one and able to live how we wanted.

What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.

But I think I’ve finally come to realize that it’s my destiny to be one of the madwomen. One of the women who speaks the truth no matter how terrifying it might be. One of the women who stands apart from the crowd, focusing not on their angry faces and disapproval but looking above them at the sky, which is in a vibrant shade of hyacinth blue that matches the flowers growing in the garden.