Witness to Healing

I used to think healing had a timeline. That grief was something you could schedule between coffee breaks

and grocery runs. Then I met him on a Tuesday evening at the corner café where I always sat

alone, tracing the rim of my cup like it held answers. He ordered the same

thing every week. Black coffee, no sugar, and he'd sit by the window reading

poetry out loud to himself. Quietly, but not quiet enough. At first it annoyed

me. I came here to disappear, not to hear some stranger recite verses about hope

when I was drowning in loss. But here's what nobody tells you. Sometimes the people

who save you aren't the ones offering advice or telling you it gets better. Sometimes they're