The one that pulls down on your sleeve

She comes at once. She does not tempest into the room. She crawls her way in. In a slow but steady flow.
She is discreet and yet strong. She is assertive and yet fragile.

She lives deep down — right at the bottom of my chest. It feels like she has rooted herself in my core.

.She seems to be calling me down. At first I don’t want to look at her.
Am I too afraid of what I’ll see?
An uncomfortable sight?

She wants me to come and sit down.
She wants me to stay with her. Down There.
Just for a bit. If I can.
If I can spare the time and the effort.

To just hold her.
Hold her for a bit.

She seems strong but she just want to be seen, too
She feels vulnerable.
She would just like to be held and carried for a while.  

Could I manage to stay with her — a little longer?
Just until she can find some kind of peace.
She needs to tell her story.
If I could just listen.

Her story is not spectacular, nor horrible, incredible or exceptional.
It’s just a story. But it’s her story.
Her language is tear.
If I could spare the sight of it.

She does not know how to speak in any other way.
And if she can’t speak, then she stays deep down there, alone.
And it’s lonely down there.
It’s safe —
But it’s lonely.

And today,
she does not want to be alone.

So I stay with her.

And I listen.

Her name is sadness…