My Light
In the garden where light falls differently now, there persists a quality of attention, the way her hands understood soil, the way silence between words held more than speech ever could. She knew that survival is breath and the small, radical acts: bread broken, a door left open, the choice to remain soft in a hard world. What endures is the gesture, the unspoken language of care she taught us, how to tend what is fragile, how to honour what passes, how to live as if beauty and sorrow are companions walking the same road. She made of her life a country we still inhabit.
There are people who become your geography. She was mine. The fixed point in a turning world, the ground beneath every flight, every fall. Her strength was the kind that required no announcement, no display. It simply was. Like bedrock, like the pull of gravity, like the fact of morning. I built my life on the certainty of her presence, and she held that weight without complaint, without ever making me feel the burden of being held.
She spoke plainly. There was no decoration in her truth, no softening of edges for comfort's sake. When she said a thing, you could build a house on it. This was its own form of love, the refusal to lie, even kindly. The world offers us endless illusions; she offered clarity. In a life full of shifting ground, she was the place I could return to and find things exactly as they were, exactly as she said they would be. This was not hardness. This was the deep tenderness of someone who respected you enough to tell you the truth.
I think of her hands again. How they worked. How they rested. How they gestured when she spoke, spare and certain. There was economy in everything she did, nothing wasted, nothing excessive. She moved through the world with the precision of someone who understood that resources, time, energy, and love are finite and therefore sacred. She did not scatter herself. She gathered. She focused. She attended.
And in that attention, I learned what it means to be seen. Really seen. Not the performance of yourself you offer the world, but the actual architecture of who you are beneath the presentation. She saw through to the foundation and loved what she found there. This is the gift that steadies you for life: to be known completely and not turned away from.
The strength she gave me was not her own, but the kind she cultivated in me by being unmovable herself. A tree grows strong against the wind. I grew strong against her certainty, her refusal to waver, her absolute commitment to standing exactly where she stood. She taught me that you do not survive by bending to every pressure, but by knowing what you are made of and trusting that structure to hold.
She is gone, and the world feels less stable without her. But she built something in me that remains. A core of clarity. A capacity to stand. The knowledge that love is not always gentle, that sometimes it arrives as truth-telling, as the firm hand that will not let you fall, even when you want to. She made me solid. She made me capable. She made me able to walk through fire and not lose myself in it.
This is what I carry forward: her straightness, her strength, her absolute refusal to perform what she was not. The garden grows differently now, but the soil still holds what she planted. I am what she planted. And I will tend it the way she taught me, with attention, with care, with the radical act of remaining soft in a hard world while standing on ground that will not give way.
She made of her life a country we still inhabit. And I am building my home here, in the land she left behind, with the tools she placed in my hands.
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