Mending
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A late-night smoke does not promise to fix grief or erase hard realities; it simply offers a little honest quiet.
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A letter to Theo, the rainbow boy whose joy arrived without replacing grief and reminded a wounded heart how to hold sunlight again.
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A mother writes to the daughter she held for only hours, imagining the girl she might have become and loving her through every unanswered question.
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A letter to the boy who first made her a mother, carrying years of ordinary memories, fierce love, and all the things no photograph can hold.
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At four in the morning, sleeplessness, moonlight, and cheesecake become the strange little ritual of a mind that refuses to power down.
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Smoke becomes a small place to unclench when grief and the world demand more weight than one body should have to carry.
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A hope for the day relief no longer comes with judgment, conditions, or the fear of losing everything she has fought for.
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Somewhere between therapy and the forest, smoke becomes a ritual for quiet, creativity, laughter, and returning to yourself.
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No test can measure the nights, panic, meals, mornings, and quiet work behind a mother proving she can keep choosing her children.
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A daughter held for only moments remains woven through every year, every sibling, and every piece of love that followed.
Between Bruises & Blooms 