I listened to your voice today.
It’s a simple message—about 30 seconds long.
I replayed it while I rested my phone on my heart and counted your total number of words (223) and inhales (7).
You have a beautiful voice. I could listen to it all day. You hold me with it like a mother does a child.
I wish you were still around so you could hold me one more time.
Some may not understand this pain. Those who do, sadly know the depths of it. It’s a mother wound so deep that it leaves me gasping for air and a place to call home.
I thought I healed it when I met you.
The stitches tore though, when you left.
I’ve been told I must learn to mother the little girl inside of me, but I don’t know how to. She wants to be mothered by you.
I still have the rock you gave me. I tried to set it down but I can’t. I love it, and I love you.
There’s a large space in my heart where you reside. It’s beautiful there, just like you. I filled it with rose quartz, books on spirituality, and letters I never sent you. If you ever want to read them, they are on the shelf next to my kindergarten picture.
I listened again to you tonight and rested my phone on my heart.
I spent time with the cadence and soft melody of your voice and cried for the mother I have always wanted.
I’ve been told I should learn to mother this little girl inside me, but I don’t how to.
She cries often looking for you, and so I play her your voice again, and I rest my phone on my heart.
It soothes her for a short period of time. She likes it when you hold her, and I do too.
I hope one day I can be the mother she needs, but right now, we both really miss you.
Maybe things will be better with time.
For now, this little girl and I will listen to your voice and visit you in the space where you reside—in my heart.