I woke to a cold December morning,
and knew a signal would soon pierce the quiet—
a message from a corner of my past.
It felt like a reminder that still,
a small, hidden space exists for me.
Why today? Why so early? Yet, I felt it.
And my phone flashed—a perfect echo.
I paused for just a breath,
and chose to meet the silence with an answer.
Right or wrong, the judgment falls away.
There is only this mutual, happy recognition, I guess,
to know that someone, somewhere,
still holds a quiet, consistent care.
I wanted to tell you, so long ago,
Please, finally quit smoking.
But I muted my voice, imposing the answer:
If I no longer matter, why would you do that for me?
I still need a courage forged of steel to ask that question now,
because I cannot bear to hear that final, resonant "NO" once more.
