On a Day When Grief Was Towing Me Under

“Her voice."

My mother spoke softly.

Pained. 

The scalpel hovers over a young throat.

"Please be careful...

She's a singer."

She was a singer. 

Her voice…

At the moment she is unable even to utter a whisper. 

A millisecond the difference between young brilliance and young folly. 

Her voice...

As she learns, literally, to breathe again,

she feels it has been stolen. 

Taken.

Broken.

Where is her voice?

Her voice is,

A future unfulfilled.

A passionate fire, snuffed out.

A colorful tapestry, suddenly gray.

A dream cut off. 

An identity maimed. 

Who is she without her voice?

My voice. 

It often speaks softly.

Pained. 

It is careful...

Fearful that if it gains strength it will only face brokenness.

Again.

My voice. 

It starts with a whisper.

All it needs is one millisecond at a time to remind me that I might not know who I am sometimes but...

I am.

I am.

I am. 

My voice.

As I learn to breathe to the rhythm of a new life,

I feel God has granted

Restoration.

Healing.

Hope. 

My voice is soft,

Yet somehow stronger than the storm.

Unsure,

Yet filled with determination.

Still mending,

But daring to speak dreams of renewal and love. 

My voice is a gift I can feel in my heart and my mind, 

Blossoming anew with each coming day. 

It is not who I am,

But rather who I hope to be.