The quiet has gone away. There's not enough quiet anymore. In the quiet I talk to you. Too many sounds push in and try to crowd our time together. Sometimes they don't recognize how much I need the quiet. I tried to reach into the quiet today. I shut my door and found your blanket. The soft tiny one that I wove for you. I didn't finish it before you died. I tied the fringe after and left it longer than I would have if you had ever touched it. That way I have more to hold when I try to find the quiet that I need. I traced the wavy weave and spread it out over my mattress. I cried out the weak tears, the noise. I pushed everything that was too heavy into the blanket. I gave the blanket weight and held it, rocked it. I made it settle my heart. I found happiness in my own stillness. I made room for the quiet, the beauty. Some days I envy what others have. Some days I know that I have something others do not. I know what the quiet is for.
Night, night Frost
Mama loves you
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