And so the girl hands me her grief
and it is mountain. And all I want is to wrap her in the silent spaces and tell her that nothing that loud shall drown her in fear ever again. But I cannot lie. I cannot deaden the sound of a violent world.
Yet I do know that there is a silence that hides inside.
And I do know that it waits for her to find it.
And I do know that even in the midst
of all the noise and the yelling
that she might stand silent and strong.
I know this because there is a silence in me too.
I offer it to her.
Forgetting it is not mine to give away.
It is part of me as her silence is part of her.
So I turn to my silence
in hopes that she too may turn to her own.
If her fear is mountain.
Her silence is ocean.
Her peace is a river.
A constant flowing.
A carving through valley.
She shows me the pages of her journals
and they wash over me like wave
and I sit in this car and the salty tears
meet the salty water of her words and I realise that if she is an ocean than I am one too. And I know the mountain that looms within me and I weep these tears till the ocean tides rise and my mountain looks more island than unclimbable. And so I tell her…
“Look at me. I am finding myself too brave girl. I am finding myself too. Only the brave ones do.” I tell her, “only the brave ones do.”