Cardboard Hearts

#3: A soul made of feathers

[In which a frayed and tattered soul holds on just a little bit longer: the story of Norah Winter]

On New Year's Eve 17 years ago, a small child was born; a girl with dark brown eyes and a penetrating stare that made you feel as though she could see into the depths of your soul. Her name was Norah Winter.

When Norah Winter turned 1 year old, her parents smiled down at her and said, "What a beautiful child. Someday she'll grow up to do something great."

When Norah Winter turned 2 years old, she took her first step across a padded carpet floor, but there was no one there to watch her.

When Norah Winter turned 3 years old, her parents had stopped cooing over what a wonderful child she was, but it made no difference to her. She was too young to remember anything different.

When Norah Winter turned 4 years old, she sat alone on the kitchen floor, playing with her dolls as adults laughed in the living room.
She smiled and giggled and babbled to herself. She didn't mind being alone.

When Norah Winter turned 5 years old, she stood in the center of an old cabin that reeked of ashes and faded memories, singing Christmas songs for her family. They all smiled and clapped through her entire rendition of Jingle Bells, and only when she finished did her father mutter "pretty frickin' annoying, even for a 5-year-old."
Norah pretended not to hear.
She was very good at pretending.

When Norah Winter turned 6 years old, she cried to her mother about the kids in school, who wouldn't be friends with her because she always smelled like smoke.
"You'll get over it," her mother snapped at her. "Friends aren't important anyway."

When Norah Winter turned 7 years old, she spent New Year's with her grandma. The two of them sat outside, snuggling beneath layers of soft quilts and breathing in the icy wind. Norah gasped and pointed into the sky as a meteor soared past, painting the night silver before disappearing among the stars.
"Did you see it, Grandma?" Norah asked with an awestruck look on her face. "It was a star that was feeling lonely, so it wanted to go home."
Her grandma smiled and whispered into her ear, "you have a soul made of feathers, child. Never forget that."

When Norah Winter turned 8 years old, she stood next to a coffin, squeezing her eyes shut so she didn't have to see that her grandma would never smile at her under a star-streaked sky again.

When Norah Winter turned 9 years old, she was tired of being alone.

When Norah Winter turned 10 years old, she stood outside in the bitter, frigid night, clasping hands with her mother. The bitter wind seemed to suck the air out of whatever cardboard husk Norah's mother had transformed into, and Norah gripped her arm forcefully to keep her from blowing away.
"Look at the stars, Mommy," she whispered as softly as she could. "Aren't they beautiful?"
Mommy nodded, the girl whose soul was made of feathers told herself. She squeezed your hand and whispered that she loved you, but the wind blew her voice away before you could hear it.

When Norah Winter turned 11 years old, she sat alone at the top of the stairs as her family huddled together in the living room, watching the ball drop.
"10, 9, 8, 7..."
Maybe someone will notice I'm gone and come to find me.
"6, 5, 4..."
They're just caught up in the excitement, and probably drunk. Of course they wouldn't notice I left an hour ago.
"3, 2, 1..."
Maybe next year will be better.
"Happy New Year," Norah whispered to herself. Then she slowly rose to her feet and glided through the darkness to her room.
No one noticed.