Her knees give way under the force of her own body's weight. Though she is slight, it is enough to make them creak during their descent to the earth. It is a somewhat painful reminder of the years that they have weathered in concert with the rest of her equally talkative joints. Despite the pain, she continues to the ground, which has recently become a much more difficult, and dangerous, task. Though she knows the danger lies not within the bend, or even the possible break, but with the perception of such a bend.
Her squeaking hinges speak in some foreign language that only others who share her collection of years and experiences seem to understand. They ask not for pity or help, but only for someone to listen.
No one can seem to hear her over the ever present screams, bickering and explosions that poison her surroundings. How could they, she wonders. It is difficult to hear whispering in one ear while someone shouts in the other.
She is the whisper.
She continues to let gravity pull her to the ground until her arthritic patellae find the mat lain over the linoleum floor. With a slight jolt of pain that shoots up her thighs, her downward plunge is halted, and she is halfway there.
Other whisperers, and whispers alike, surround her. They slowly grow and build to a quiet crescendo, barely audible to even the keenest of ears, but somehow easily palpable and impossible to ignore.
As she wills her body nearer the floor, her ancient bones somehow keep pace with the other, less prehistoric skeletons, wrapped in equally less wrinkled skin. In this moment, what she sees, what she hears, and what she feels, is love. Though she knows that others may not interpret it in quite the same way.
She knows that we are scared, and that we are hurt, and that in times like these, even the best of us can loosen our grip on even our tightest held convictions.
At the conclusion of her daily bend, the whispers fade, and yet again give way to the now usual barks and fire that are the blaring minority. Though, none of us even seemed to notice the symphony of whispers in our one ear, as we were being bombarded with the lonely screeches in the other.
As she exits the mosque and steps back into the cacophony of the city where she was born so many years ago, through the throngs of protest signs, burning Qurans and angry faces, she feels as distant from an American citizen as she believes possible, yet instead of finding sadness, or hatred, her mind focuses only on one solitary thought. She hopes that her prayer is one day answered; please let them hear our whispers through the screams.
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