Dear woman who cried with me in the flower section of Trader Joe’s,
I had a hard week.
And without my hearing aids... I was crashing out.
Sound didn’t just fade; it slipped through me.
I couldn’t hear anyone.
And I couldn’t hear myself.
So I was either too loud or not there at all.
No middle ground.
Just mouths moving.
Me reading lips,
Trying to catch the music of connection
with my eyes instead of my ears.
People thought I was ignoring them.
Or sick.
Or choosing silence.
But really—I felt like a ghost.
Standing in rooms.
Unseen. Unheard. Still here... but fading.
When I start to unravel,
I buy a plant from Trader Joe’s.
Something alive. Something still trying.
But it was rush hour.
Days before a Nashville snowstorm.
And everybody was preparing for the end—
milk, eggs, panic in carts. Survival.
So I escaped to the flower section.
I breathed in colour.
I stood there, trying to remember who I was.
That’s when you tapped my shoulder.
I jumped.
You apologized—
once, trice, too many times—
your head shaking before your words caught up.
You said,
“I just wanted to say thank you...
For the mint. For Monday.”
you told me you’d come into the coffeehouse
freshly broken from losing your dream job,
feeling small. Insignificant.
I didn’t know. It was busy.
I just wrote on your cup, “You are a vibe. Stay fierce,”
and slid your latte along with a Monday Project across the counter.
But you remembered something else.
You said I looked you in the eyes. You said I mouthed—you matter.
You said you didn’t even read the project at first.
You shoved it in your pocket.
Waited until you were alone in your car.
And then...you let it break you open.
It’s still taking up real estate in your coat, even now.
Maybe it was kismet.
Two strangers
carrying the same quiet weight, orbiting the same ache,
colliding between orchids and eucalyptus.
You said I changed everything for you with a whisper.
And I told you, you changed mine.
By reminding me that impact doesn’t require volume.
That even quiet kindness echoes.
That I still matter, even when I feel invisible.
There was a moment,
where time did that soft stutter like it forgot its lines.
We cried there. Right in front of the flowers.
I couldn’t hear us.
But I felt it.
Love humming through the air,
vibrating into the Universe.
I didn’t catch your name.
But we held hands.
We asked for grace. We manifested big things coming.
Then the air shifted.
Subtle.
The way eucalyptus does,
clears your lungs before you know you needed breathing.
The roses saw it.
I swear they did. Blushing in their grocery-store buckets,
pretending not to be sacred. I took the whole bucket.
All of it.
Eucalyptus spilling over my arms,
roses heavy with meaning I didn’t ask for
but accepted anyway.
Because what are you suppose to do
after kismet brushes your shoulder in the middle of the aisle.
Put it back? Walk away?
No.
You take proof.
You take the scent of almost and the colour of maybe.
And in the checkout line,
I pulled a Sharpie from my pocket and wrote you matter on my palm.
A truth too sacred to forget.
I carried those flowers home
like an offering to myself.
To the moment.
To the part of me
that still believes
some things happen
just because they are supposed to.
You never know who needs help to stay afloat.
Life is tough, but so are you.
You are not alone.
Don’t let yourself sink.
You matter.
