The Language of Presence

The scene arrived like a stone, sinking in the quiet pond of my morning. My niece, laughter still echoing in my memory, gone. The wake, a blur of hushed condolences, faces swimming in a sea of shared sorrow. And then, you were there. Not with grand pronouncements, not with awkward, empty words. You simply stood beside me. Though we talked about each other's nostalgic moments in our respective lives, your presence, a silent anchor in the storm of my grief. Your hand, a warm pressure on my palm, spoke volumes that words could not. We sat together, sharing the sad and happy memories of yesteryears, while the lights beside the coffin just stood still, the silent testament to a life too short. In that shared moment, a tear escaped, unbidden, a salty testament to my pain. And you, with words of sincerity, reached out, your presence gently brushing it away. A small gesture, perhaps, but in that moment, it felt like the weight of the world had been momentarily lifted. Thank you, ate Paz, my dear classmate. For understanding the language of presence. For sharing the burden of a grief that felt too heavy to bear alone. For being there. Just there. And in that being, offering a solace more profound than any words could convey. ©bfa050625