Between Bruises and Blooms

Every story
has a first page.

Ours wasn’t written
with grand speeches
or dramatic beginnings.

It was written
with a five-year-old’s smile,

a sleeping newborn,

and a mother
trying to memorize
every tiny detail
before time could steal it away.

If I’d known
how quickly little hands grow,
how swiftly babies become boys,

I might have held my breath
a little longer.

But maybe that’s the gift
of photographs.

They let us return
to the first chapter,

whenever our hearts
need to remember
how the story began. ❤️