I’d almost just hung up, but the numbness froze my default emergency protocol. Snuffed out the blinking lights that read : Tell No One. Hide until you’ve Processed.
So I just said it. Then said it again. To whoever really wanted to know. Spoke the words during the days my body felt nothing, alien, my mind a haze. I peaked from under the thick blanket of numbness, and found I had not landed in the hiding cave.
Someone played music and brought firewood. Hands stroked my ankles while I slept. I spent an afternoon spooned between a man and two purring cats. When I found I couldn’t cook, I was fed. I was taken to see the sun rise. I was held, sung to, left alone. I was seen.
I shared, and through the sharing felt the tug and tingle of all these threads, the soft red wool that with each day, pulled me back a little.