The Things That Stay

Some things leave quietly,

not with slammed doors or final words,

but by becoming smaller inside your life.

A voice you used to wait for

becomes one you barely remember.

A name that once lived behind your teeth

learns to survive without being spoken.

Even grief gets tired

of introducing itself.

But some things stay.

The smell of rain through an open window,

a song you haven’t heard in years

still knowing exactly where to hurt you,

the strange comfort of a light left on

in another room.

The version of yourself who survived

something you thought would bury you.

Maybe that is what healing is—

not forgetting, not forgiving,

not waking one morning

miraculously untouched.

Maybe it is simply learning

which ghosts deserve a chair at your table

and which ones

you finally stop feeding.

And if tomorrow finds me

carrying pieces of yesterday,

let it.

I have learned there is a difference

between carrying the past

and letting it carry me.