A quiet cup of tea at dawn,
steam curling like memories in the air,
a moment stolen, sacred, soft
yet my heart hums in the distance,
where little feet once raced,
and voices filled the corners of the house.
They wander now,
not fleeing, never truly gone,
but tracing paths of their own making,
carrying pieces of home tucked beneath their wings.
And still, they return
for a word, a glance, a warmth that never fades,
for nourishment beyond the body,
beyond the knowing of even me.
The paradox blooms each day:
joy in watching them rise,
tinged with the ache of absence.
I cradle both, the letting go,
and the holding on,
knowing the spaces between
are threaded with love that bends,
but never breaks.
I sip my tea,
a smile that knows the quiet truth:
they will return,
as they always have and always will,
to the heart that remains,
patient, open, unwavering.
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