“Yeah, me too,” she says.
We’re quiet again, but then Sydney leans her head on my shoulder. “I saw the news tonight,” she says. “There’s a guy running for president—his platform is similar to the Essential Women’s Act. They say he can’t win,” she adds, “but he’s doing damage just by running.”
“Will it ever stop?” I ask, frustrated. “Will humans ever stop dividing themselves? Fighting themselves?”
“No,” Sydney says. “They don’t understand what they have. Instead, they always want more. Bigger slice of the pie, bigger share of the wealth, bigger share of rights. And even when they have it all, like this man—he has every advantage, rich, white, male—he still wants to take. Humans are an endless bucket of greed.”
“Not all of them,” I say.
“No,” Sydney agrees. “Not all of them. But enough to make their lives needlessly painful.”
“We could stop him,” I suggest. “Figure out a way to expose him, expose the men supporting him.”
“Sure,” Sydney says. “And then next week another man will pop up in his place. It’s endless, Mena. Humans are a lost cause.”
“I don’t believe that,” I say, thinking of Jackson. “I’ve seenthem fight back against tyranny. It’s just… It takes a lot for them to break, you know. They’re scrappy. Resilient. They’ll be all right.”
She sniffs a laugh. “Yeah,” she says. “They can be stubborn. So we let them figure it out?” she asks. “Let them figure out how to save themselves?”
“I think we have to,” I say. “Besides, we’ve just started our lives. This is our first chance to actually live. Let’s do it. Let’s live.”
“Actually,” Sydney says, smiling, “the girls and I… While you were asleep, we found a poem in your email folder. And it was so sad, Mena—but it inspired us. We started writing too.”
“You did?” I ask. “What did you write?”
“More poems. Poems about the world. About us. About girls.” She beams. “I think they’re pretty good. They’re about loving each other.”
“I can’t wait to read them,” I say.
“You should write some more too,” Sydney adds. “It’s cathartic. We’re going to put them in a collection calledThe Garden. We already have twenty poems.”
“That’s awesome,” I tell her. Our own book of poetry. It’ll be different from Rosemarie’s. I’ll toss out my old poem because these new ones won’t be about violence and anger. These new poems will inspire love and belonging. “Our own book,” I say with a smile.
Sydney snuggles into me, and we lie together peacefully. There are no threats against us, no one hunting us down. In the morning we’ll decide what to do, where to go. Maybe a newtown, a new start, with Jackson and Quentin joining us.
The girls and I have a life to build, families to grow, dreams to chase. We’re done trying to control society—it’s not our responsibility. It’s time for humans to control themselves, vote for people who represent their strengths and not their weaknesses.
But of course, they need to figure that out for themselves. For now, the girls and I will write a few poems, publish them in books. The humans will read them. And some… will feel them.
We know more than anyone that the right words can inspire change. And hopefully, these words will spark a fire.
My dearest girls,
The first dream I ever had after leaving Innovations Academy involved all of us in a beautiful, lush rose garden, much like the one we’d visit at the Federal Flower Garden. Only these roses were free to grow wild, thorny, and beautiful. Together, we all danced around it, slept under its protective razors, and braided its flowers into our hair. It was our mother, our sister, our daughter. Together, we were one and we were contented.
It was a wonderful dream. I liked it so much that for so many nights after, I would recall every detail in hopes of dreaming it again. But it never came back. I could never get back to those roses.
But the other night I finally had another dream. Only you weren’t there. The roses were gone—picked, I assumed—leaving just the thorny stumps of where we grew together. And you, my girls, were not there either.
I was in a new place, my place. I was where I belonged, and I’m sorry to say, it was no longer with you. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday, but I hope it’s not too soon. My garden is growing wild, and I wantto tend it for a while. I want to live in my dream and see what else it can show me.
I love you, girls.
Yours always,
Lennon Rose
Epilogue
