Counting Silence

The first time he brushed my hair
I sat stiff as a question.
Uncomfortable.
Unsure where to put my hands,
or my breathing.

The second time
I was still uneasy,
but he talked while he worked
slowly through the knots—
about the weather,
about a book he half remembered,
about how quiet rooms
can hold people better than words.

The third time
I asked him why.

Why this ritual.
Why the careful patience
of someone counting silence.

He smiled
like the answer had been waiting.

Because, he said,
I know it makes you feel small.
Like you have to shrink
to be taken care of.

Like tenderness
is something you have to earn.

The brush moved again,
slow as breathing.

But you shouldn’t feel that way.

You shouldn’t have to fold yourself
into something smaller
to be safe.

You shouldn’t have to hold still
like something fragile
that might break
if someone touches it wrong.

You’re allowed to rest
in the hands that love you.

So now
every night before bed
one hundred strokes.

The brush gliding
through memory and doubt.

And somewhere between
thirty-seven
and eighty-two
my shoulders soften,

like my body
is finally learning
that being cared for
is not the same thing
as being small.

Stay Weird. Love You. Mean It.

Photo by Mikhail Seleznev on Unsplash