I wasn’t there when she was born. 

I didn’t even know she existed, not until a couple of months later, when I smiled at the mischievous glance from a bundle of fur, temporarily named Dancer.

Our politics tells us left or right. Our media tells us black or white. There’s no room for nuance, no allowance for “I don’t know,” no whisper audible in the din of dinging phones and shouting protests.

And yet every day, everywhere, you can still hear the quiet opening of hearts.

If you listen.

I heard it yesterday, in the silent passing of coffee and muffin from an older lady to the kid sitting with the sign outside Starbucks. 

And here, this morning, when I whispered to the tangle of dog on my bed.

Happy Birthday, Emma.

Thank you for the quiet opening of this heart.

You can hear it, you know.

If you listen. 

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