Five-Minute Friday (Take 2): The voice of grief

 Disclaimer: After posting on the topic of "Voice" with Five-Minute Friday, I couldn't get these thoughts out of my mind.  Gritty, raw, unedited, but for some reason, this is the "Voice" I wanted to write out earlier but wasn't brave or clear enough to do.  This is not a woe-is-me post, and I hope it's not read that way.  It's just, well, honest - and ultimately, grateful.

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I sit huddled on kitchen linoleum, knees to chest like a diver falling forward, somersaults in mid-air.  I open my mouth, then shut it, afraid to hear my own voice.  Afraid if I let it out, it will sound like a car alarm in the night that the neighbor won't shut off.  

So I suffocate my voice in a wad of blanket, until my face is all wet, until my whole body shudders for its release.

And I let it out.  

And it's not pretty.  It rises and heaves, cracks and whimpers, wails and whispers.  I press into a corner hard, as if I could disappear into drywall.  As if I could flee this sorrow, flee this voice.  I don't want anyone to hear or see.  I don't want to be alone.

And I know I'm not.

There's just one who can see me like this.  Just one I trust to still love me, still love my voice, to not turn away from this puddle on the floor that is me.

How many times, I ask, have I known these arms that I've never seen, wrapped around me like a Papa?  How many times have I leaned in weary breaths against this chest I cannot feel, but somehow know is real as the wooden shelf I now rest my head upon? How many times have these scarred hands cupped my face and whispered grace and peace?  I cannot count.

I know no true relief but this.

This one who I cannot hide my voice from.