I’ll hand you a crumpled paper bag.
You’ll open it to find a scrap of heart, still beating.
I’ll reveal the scars that criss cross a back.
They will not diminish us.
I’ll offer you a photograph.
Allow the images to speak.
You’ll sense a glance, familiar. A posture, strong. A smile so endearing, your heart cracks. Turn the photo. A penciled notation is fashioned in perfect script. Evidence of loss and struggle amidst beauty.
I’ll reach for your hand.
You’ll reach back.
It’s impossible to separate our souls, our stories.
Our ancestors do not leave us, rather, they gather to bear witness, to stand alongside.
~Long ago I learned to make friends with silence.
