With permission I’m reblogging sheri’s post. Her words hit me hard; so much agony, so much truth.

Echoes are memories; echoes of any sort can make us recall things we might not be ready to. I’m not a professional so I can’t say “face it,” “trace it,” “avoid it,” destroy it.” I have my own echoes; perhaps each one of us does.

broken fingernails

hear no evil
the crash of a fist through a cabinet door

the cries of a baby being born into an unforgiving world

the silent pleas of a mother who has been denied a voice

the click of a gun not firing

the sobbing washed down the drain by the shower

the footsteps walking down the hall, going where they don’t belong

the clack of the keyboard keys behind a closed door

the muted voices of the policemen, making the wrong assumption

the click of the door quietly being closed

the slap of the hand against the cheek

the sound of a leather belt hitting the wooden bedpost

the ringing of the phone in the middle of the night

the wail of the sirens going to the wrong house

the murmuring of prayers never answered

the echoes of desperation reverberating in my brain

photo attribute: © User:Colin / Wikimedia Commons, via Wikimedia Commons

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