My good deeds are secret: words whispered in a small room with a strong woman who can only let go when the door’s closed.
My good deeds are hidden- in midnight kitchens with mothers who can’t find their sons or catch their breath.
My good deeds are silent- simply present with her in a hospital room that still smells like the way he hurt her.
My good deeds stay with me- they cling to my clothes while I prepare my dinner, while I bathe my daughter, and while I choose what I will wear
It is so easy to recognize a hero that kicks in doors, that stitches wounds, that arrests perpetrators. It is almost impossible to see- let alone honor- those who are there in the aftermath- the victim’s rights advocates, the shelter staff, the peer counselors.
But they are there- and they are wonderful.