Memories
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He crossed an ocean while she crossed the distance between fear and sleep, meeting somewhere in the safety of a voice through a screen.
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Gabby Goose waddles through life collecting adventures and pieces of her mother’s heart before finally curling into stillness for the night.
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Home becomes a scent left on borrowed fabric—sawdust, sweat, summer, and the strange peace of breathing someone in after they are gone.
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The household’s tiny chaos agent finally sleeps, transforming from Goosifer into a soft little snore wrapped around her mother.
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One twin finally closes her eyes just as the other wakes, passing the night shift between them like a perfectly coordinated little conspiracy.
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A memory of who two friends were before grief taught them how fragile laughter, plans, and ordinary days could become.
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At four in the morning, she misses the heavy quiet that once softened sleeplessness, anxiety, and the relentless sprint inside her mind.
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A photograph of a boy with a pelican becomes a doorway back to the voice that once crossed an ocean to make a frightened girl feel safe.
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At seventeen, safety arrived through a voice across the distance, leaving behind the ache of wondering what might have happened at another time.
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Some people arrive like seasons; this is for the one who stayed through grief, hospital rooms, silence, and everything that followed.
Between Bruises & Blooms 