The Sharpest Kind of Kindness

Rafael had written a song for the school talent show, and he was certain it was the best thing he had ever made. He played it for his older sister Joana first, because she always told him the truth, even when he didn't want it.

"The melody is good," she said, when he finished. "But the words in the second verse don't make sense. You're rhyming, but you're not saying anything."

"It rhymes, though."

"Rhyming isn't the same as meaning something," Joana said. "You could rhyme 'cat' with 'hat' all day and never say anything true. I think you wrote that verse because you needed a rhyme, not because you had something to say."

Rafael felt his face get hot. "You always do this. Why can't you just say it's good?"

"Because it's not all good," Joana said, not unkindly, but not softening it either. "And if I tell you it's perfect, and then you sing it in front of the whole school and the second verse falls flat, that's a worse feeling than this one, right now, with just me."

He didn't speak to her for the rest of the day. He sulked through dinner. But that night, alone in his room, he read the second verse again, and he heard what she meant — the words were just sounds wearing the costume of meaning. He rewrote it three times before something honest came out, something that actually said what the song was about.

At the talent show, the new verse landed exactly the way he'd hoped — quiet at first, then a few people nodding, recognizing something true in it.

Afterward, Joana hugged him before he could even ask what she thought. "That second verse," she said, "now it's the best part of the whole song."

"You could have just said that the first time," he said, but he was smiling.

"No," she said. "The first time, it wasn't true yet. I only get to say the kind thing once it's actually become kind. Before that, the kindest thing I can do is tell you the truth, even with teeth in it."