“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”
— WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, MACBETH
There are so many ways to speak. I speak through my writing, measured and carefully constructed. I speak with words spoken, sometimes blurted out and other times haltingly. I speak through my tattoos, each one painfully placed to tell a part of the story. I speak with my eyes, sometimes crinkled with joy and sometimes flooded with tears. I speak the loudest with my heart. You can’t hear it, but I can, and I know she can. Eight years ago, I had no idea that I’d need to find so many ways to speak. I speak my grief loudly with all of my voices, their number and volume so large because the depth of my grief is massive to match the depth of the joy she gave me. Eight years is a minute and a lifetime. May her memory continue to be the most holy of blessings that I will continue to speak.