The gallery brimmed. Strangers shared how my art touched them, seeing their own in the sewn cloth and weary gaze of my scarecrow mom. I sold works, built ties, and buzzed with life.
Mid-event, I spotted Kael by the door, seeming shrunken.
He neared cautiously, hands pocketed. “Avelyn. You look stunning.”
“Thanks,” I replied courteously. “I followed your tip. I combed my hair.”
He attempted a chuckle, but it fell flat. His eyes glistened. “I’m sorry. For it all. I was harsh. You didn’t merit any.”
“No,” I concurred softly. “I didn’t. But I merited more. And now I possess it.”
He parted his lips as if to add, but silence followed. Moments later, he nodded and departed, vanishing into the throng and from my world.
Later that night, post-closing and guests gone, I lingered solo before “The Scarecrow Mom.” Lights gleamed the paint, making the sewn form nearly breathe.
I recalled Kael’s sofa words that day: “You look like a scarecrow.” Phrases to shatter me, render me tiny, valueless, and spent.
But scarecrows don’t shatter. They sway in gales, endure every tempest, and guard fields for what’s vital. And they manage sans whining, praise, or anyone’s nod.
Sometimes the best payback skips rage or ruin. It’s piecing yourself anew till you’re alien to those who shrank you. It’s rising high when all predict your tumble. And it’s spotting grace in fractures and crafting art from hurt.
As I strolled home to my babies that night, cool breeze on my skin, I murmured to myself, “You were correct, Kael. I’m a scarecrow. And I’ll rise firm whatever the gale’s force.”
And to whoever reads this, ever belittled and crushed by one sworn to lift you, recall: You’re not their words. You’re your chosen self. And at times, the breaker grants just what rebuilds you tougher than before.
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