When my mother speaks, there is a sound that only I recognize.
It weaves through crowded rooms and difficult days.
It slips by startling laughter and under closed doors.
It even resonates in the air when there are no words
being said. Lingering, as if she were still nearby, going about her day.
When I hear it, I know that I am not alone, that I have hope.
Others may feel this way too, but not because they can hear my sound. They can’t hear it because it’s the sound of my heart, carried in her’s.