Between Bruises and Blooms

He never comes home
with empty hands.

If it isn’t a feather,
it’s a rock.

If it isn’t a stick,
it’s a leaf shaped like a heart,
a flower too pretty to leave behind,
or a story no one else noticed.

He collects little miracles
the way grown-ups collect worries.

He sees dragons
where I see fallen trees.

He sees castles
where I see bridges.

He sees treasure
hidden beneath every step.

And maybe that’s why
the world still feels beautiful
when I look through his eyes.

Theo,
don’t ever let anyone convince you
that growing up
means leaving your magic behind.

Keep filling your pockets.

The world needs people
who still notice the small things.