I hold myself steady and keep my mouth shut, though my lips come close to trembling with the desire to part. My fingers itch to pick up pen, paper, marker, crayon, or to at least rest their tips on keys or screen, but I bid them be still. I gather up my strength and place a dam between myself and action, between me and all the things I could say. I wait for the jitters to subside. I wait to feel the release that means I am no longer resisting myself. And though I am the one who has done this to me, I still marvel at how much power there is in this stillness, this place without words, this recognition that just because I can doesn't mean I should.
She is always there. For always. Since always. She is there in the quiet and even in the moments I deny her. She persists. She listens to my heart when I choose to be deaf to its beating and whispers its secrets to me when I am ready to listen. I wonder at her fortitude, that she could remain so strong when at times I've given her only the barest essentials to live on. I stand in awe of her patience in the face of all my doubt. She is the best of me, and she is me at my best. She is the stuff of best intentions and dreams that never died.