My silence seemed like abandonment, neglect, angry to you on those days when I asked for a reprieve, a moment to gather, mourn, feel.
It is easy to interpret and assess my need for stillness in this way. Even my college professors did it: gave me low grades, assumed nothing was happening.
My silence is not any of those words. It is not me saying I am angry and I will not talk to you. It is not me sitting with a blank mind. It is not me forgetting you and all the bricks that have fallen at my feet.
My silence is an ocean of continuous reflection, it is the Mississippi River carrying a million rafts of what is my part in this and how can I be better, do better, see better? It is a monsoon of healing, hoping, searching, releasing, and most of all mending.
