Coffee With My Best Friend

There is a younger version of me
I wrap around with a soft
crocheted blanket, and offer
a cup of coffee, and tell her
“I’m here to listen.”

This version of me will not
perhaps know how to verbalise
her feelings,
but I’ve got enough wrinkles
now, to sit and wait long enough
for the words to start flowing.

When she sees I’m not here to judge her
or correct, or prove her wrong,
I’m not here to wish the error
of her deeds away,

I think she will see my eyes
alight, she will see the way I hold
back on advice, correction, reproof;
she will see how I have come to her
as one ready and willing, quiet
with love.

How I will choose not to tell her
how things will turn out here and there,
or that I regret what she will still
choose to do or say,
that I will not be able to protect her
from painful eventualities
or even be able to take the trauma away.

But to love her, I will love her,
not judge her.
I will give her my time and my
space until we talk and receive ourselves
into oneness,
until we merge into this unified being
of imperfection, and messy grace;

until I feel the blanket wrapped around
my shoulders and take a sip
of the best cup of coffee I’ve ever made.