You heard me
'How did you hear me?' I remembered once asking you.
'What do you mean?' You and I were walking along the street, Tim Horton hot chocolates in one hand, and fingers entwined with the other, on a snowy December morning.
'No one ever hears me. So how did you?'
'Isn't it obvious?' You said, 'I was meant to hear. I was always meant to find you that day.'
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I called out for someone. Anyone. Help. Please, help me. It hurt too much to move. I was ganged up on by people who thought I was my brother. He had done something stupidly damaging. Again. And once again, I had payed for his mistakes. I only had an inch of my life left. Bleeding. Bruised. Cuts were everywhere on my body. I kept calling out in that dark alley. Help me. Please, help me.
And then you came. You shouldn't have been able to hear me, but you did. You came running towards me. You picked me up, and ran to the nearest hospital. You told me I was going to be okay. You kept telling me that, all the way there. I wonder how I felt to you as you were carrying me? You held my hand as the doctors stitched me up and covered me in bandages.
And everyday you came to see me as I recovered. I would always be welcomed by your shiny silver hair, and your beautiful ruby eyes. Alfred tried to stop you from coming, but you didn't. You would stroll me around the hospital wing, and we would talk like there was no tomorrow. And we would laugh until our stomachs hurt.
And now, even today, when you come home from work, I am always greeted by your shiny silver hair, your beautiful ruby eyes, and that wonderful smile that captured my heart. After dinner, we would sit down and watch one of your videos from your job as an entertainer, I tell you about my day working as a waiter. As we walk into our room for bed, I always look at the photo on our nightstand. The one of our wedding. And I always think to myself, 'Thank you. Thank you for hearing me.'
