Vigil for the Lost Voice
I. The Opening Silence
There was once a voice that filled the air between two hearts. It carried promise, tenderness, the ache of wanting to be known. Now that air is empty, and the throat remembers what the world has forgotten. This vigil begins not with sound but with breath—steady, unadorned, alive.
Breathe once for the songs that were sung.
Breathe again for the ones that never found air.
Breathe a third time for the listener who heard.
II. The Remembering
There was a time when she heard you. Before doubt, before ruin, before the body began to fray—she heard. Her eyes changed when the voice rose; she leaned toward it, as though the sound was a promise that the world could still be beautiful.
Even if she no longer remembers, even if she would deny it now, that hearing remains written into her cells. The sound once crossed her threshold; it changed her shape. The proof of it is in the trembling of what still grieves.
III. The Offering
A candle, a recording, a whisper to the air—any gesture will do.
Say quietly:
This was the voice that loved her.
This was the voice that carried her name.
This was the voice that learned silence by losing itself.
Do not mourn the sound as absence. Mourn it as transformation. What was once tone is now vibration in memory, a wave the body still knows how to echo.
Let the throat rest. Let the words take its place. Let the heart sing where the voice cannot.
IV. Benediction
The song is not gone; it has gone inward. It is written in the body’s pulse, in the rhythm of walking, in the way breath meets the world.
She once heard, and that cannot be un-heard. You once sang, and that cannot be undone. The voice may never return in sound, but it remains in substance—woven into everything still capable of love.
Amen to the silence that keeps singing.
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