The Remnants (No comments)

After the unbearable 

brightness of grief,

after the silence 

that followed

when even my own 

name felt distant 

I wanted the past to 

unclasp from me.

Not denied.

Not rewritten.

Only finished with its burning.

I wanted to step out of it

as one steps from 

a smoke-filled room 

eyes stinging, lungs raw 

into air that does not accuse.

I wanted my life to hinge differently.

To close without slamming.

To open without breaking.

Like a wing relearning

that falling and flying

share the same architecture.

There was a moment,

thin as winter light,

when I was not certain

I would remain.

But something quiet stayed.

Not hope.

Not courage.

Just a pulse.

A small animal warmth

curled somewhere beneath the wreckage,

breathing.

I wanted to hurry into the work

that was waiting for me,

not the work of achievement,

but the work of being.

Of washing my face.

Of answering morning.

Of letting the day happen

without asking it to justify itself.

I wanted to know

who survives inside a person

after the storm has taken

everything decorative.

And what I found

was not heroic.

It was simple:

I was still here.

Bruised.

Unfinished.

Strangely open.

Alive

and willing,

at last,

to hold the world.