I hear you.
Yes, I hear you.
I hear you when you’re talking.
I hear you when you’re working out.
I hear you when all is quiet.
I hear you in the stillness of the night.
Your mouth moves, but your heart speaks louder.
Sinus rhythms, metallic percussion, and a tick-tock life clock beating deep inside your chest.
Down the road you’ll be asked what you remember first after waking up from surgery. You’ll be asked what you felt.
You’ll be asked about the pain.
The pain. The pain...
They always ask about the pain, but they don't know about the quiet, do they?
They don’t know.
Jess, between the moments of eyebrows raised and words spoken, when you respond to them; I will hear you. They don’t hear their heart. They don’t know what it’s like to hear “it” the first time. They don’t know that cavernous echo or that repeating reality between the breaths. The reality of the nighttime, or the quiet solitude holds.
In the stillness.
In the silence.
Your silence will be different.
Your stillness, changed.
Both at times will not be silent.
They won’t always be still.
Violently sawed open.
Expertly sewn in.
An organ you cannot touch.
Inside, where you cannot see.
Expertly closed up again.
Your valve will beat, to the beat of life.
The beat will be an ever-present reminder of the fact, and counter to any fog the darkness brings along that yes, you are alive.
Jess, I hear you.
When it’s quiet, I hear you.
Lower the world’s volume, learn to steep yourself between those two heartbeats, and listen.
Learn to love the lessons within.
Learn to listen.
Learn that rhythm and beauty.
Learn that strength.
Your beat is unique.
Your beat will carry you forward.
Oars in the water.
Oxygen rich and ready.
Jess, your world will change.
You will be alive, more than ever.
Renewed with each new day.
Where others shy from their quiet, you will thrive.
Fight for yourself.
It will be there.
Hope, your anchor.
Jess, I hear you.