Underneath the glow of a vacant street lamp, trash rots beneath her nose. Through the simple act of turning a page, the autumnal air is fumigated of all sour scents. She sits reading line by line the tale of a man and a woman not far from here, though years and realities apart from her own.

Eyes down.

Focus here.

Glance up there.

The ensembles of men and women walk amidst her glance– not far from here.

Why do their eyes never fall upon my own?

A young man and woman, near tight embrace. Four-wheeled fanatics. Huddles surrounding smoke and empty bottles. To each their own, and her… On my own.

She returns to the page. It is different now. The focus has faded. The fumes linger beneath her nose. She sits reading line by line, the tale of a man and a wom—

“Excuse me, miss.”

Oh, how I wish you’d go away.

Her cheeks simmer vermillion. His cheeks wear a coat of scruff and sweat. His eyes, glazed, fall upon her own.

“Excuse me miss, but you are really pretty.”

Oh, how I wish you’d go away. The inebriation wears no mask. 

“Um, thank you.”

“No, you’re like, really pretty.”

Hands to the lips. A look of utter disbelief. His right foot stumbles over the left, forgetting it occupied the same earth.

“And you’re, real?”

Does he know, even the ‘pretty ones’ read?

“Yes, I am real…”

“I mean, you’re sitting there, in front of my eyes. You’re real?”

Now, what might this man be on?

“Yes, yes I am.”

She shuffles in her seat as he stumbles backward and forwards. The face of shock still staring at her own.

“Woah, and you exist?”

“And I exist.”

“Wow.”

“Wow, woah (and whatnot)…Well, miss, have a good night.”

“And you, too.”

He staggers down the path. A glass bottle in his right coat pocket shimmers beneath the vacant street lamp, momentarily catching the eye of the young ‘miss.’

Must be the pregame.

Those words linger here. On her tongue.

And I exist.

Eyes down.

Focus here.

It is different now. Will it ever be the same? The lines are still the same. The tale of a man and a woman not far from here. She feels not far from here. But eyes down. Focus here.

She reads line by line. She sits beneath the vacant street lamp. And she exists.

They say he died peacefully in his sleep— a heart attack. I had hoped his demise would be long and agonizing— that intolerable old man.

His lawyer gave me the key to his home and three days to remove “sentimental items” before the estate sellers arrived Monday morning.

The large oak door of my old room offered the sound of neglect. A resounding creak shuddered through the hall. Within its walls, I found the remnants of a bitter childhood— the unswept air resting on the back of the tongue. I reserved a moment for my eyes to wander. In the corner of the room, on a short pine shelf with golden trim, lie my collection of feminist novels hidden between copies of Dostoevsky and Shakespeare. In high school, my teacher asked us to write a persuasive letter to anyone we wished. I wrote a letter to my father, quoting Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, requesting he allow me to attend the senior prom on account of my autonomy as a young woman. I never gave him the letter, only imagining the outrage it would provoke. My teacher gave me an A.

Kneeling beside the short wooden shelf, I reached for the thin copy of A Room of One’s Own I stole from the library when I was 12. My fingers, now worn by nearly thirty years of motherhood and ambition, shook with the lingering spirit of resentment. I tightened my grip around the paper spine and set the book down in the cardboard box labeled “keep,” sitting on the rose-printed duvet beside me.

Downstairs I unlocked the door to my father’s study— the first time I’d held the key without him towering behind my shoulder. I was overcome by the smell of whiskey breath and fresh cigars. I closed my eyes, and suddenly I was six, sitting on my father’s knee, trying to read the documents he was signing on his desk. My back was warm from my father’s chest and the fireplace glowing behind us. I looked up at his face, admiring the wrinkles of concentration burrowing into his forehead. “Daddy, I want to be a writer when I grow up.”

“Now why on earth would you do that Elsie,” his voice was rigid; his eyes remained fixed on the documents. I remembered him muttering, “what an obnoxious idea,” as he returned to his work.

When I opened my eyes, I was staring at the red leather chair shoved beneath his desk. I began searching through the wide drawers on each side. From the bottom left drawer, I removed a pile of tax documents, the deed to the house, and my mother’s death certificate. Two sheets of paper fell from behind the stack. I crouched down and picked them up from the cold wooden floor. The first was a letter I had not seen in 27 years. It began, “Dear Father,” with a large red “A” inscribed on the top-right corner of the page. The paper was worn by the oil of fingertips and palms, grasping to read and reread. On the second paper— a letter— addressed to me in my father’s script. I caught only the last line before warm tears flooded the edges of my vision, “And all you wanted to do was dance.”

During early May 2021, Texas Governor Greg Abbott signed into law the “heartbeat” bill, prohibiting abortions as early as 6-weeks when the fetal heartbeat is first detectable. I was informed of this news through a Texas friend’s Instagram story. My typical mindless tapping was stopped dead within its tracks. I expanded the post, read every word, then scoured the internet for news articles and more information. “When you factor in the time it takes to confirm a pregnancy, consider your options and make a decision, schedule an appointment and comply with all the restrictions politicians have already put in place for patients and providers, a six-week ban essentially bans abortion outright,”(1) notes Dyana Limon-Mercado, executive director of Planned Parenthood Texas Votes. I was at a lost for words. Texas, a state I lived in for 9 years– although never agreed with politically– had made the decision to virtually reverse the decision of Roe v. Wade. The world had begun to turn backwards, losing sight of the things those before us fought for.

This bill was only one of several opponents in women’s right to an abortion signed into effect during the past year.

I was, I am infuriated by the outrageous actions of these political systems. Roe v. Wade granted by mother, my sister, and myself the right to choose. I struggle to comprehend the rationality of men controlling the presence of this vital choice in women’s health. I consider myself lucky to inhabit a state that shows no interest in banning abortions, however I can only think of the friends, acquaintances, strangers in Texas who may not have the same reassurance.

And so I advocate for change, I support organizations that take radical steps in challenging bills such as these. As a premedical student, I began considering a future as an OBGYN; a specialty I had never given much thought to in the past, although a specialty that would grant me access to the front line of women’s health. I would play a vital role in supporting women’s right to choose, and become an informed opponent to abortion bans.