Gathering

To be together with my parents

was always a pleasure—

a new hunt for obstacles,

for laughter, for love.

We gathered moments

like bright stones in our pockets,

never knowing how rare they’d become.

We laughed until we cried,

and sometimes we cried until we laughed again.

We were a small, unshakable circle—

a family that knew how to hold on.

I remember Stonehenge,

a winter so fierce the air froze our breath.

Minus twenty degrees,

and yet there we were,

my father charging ahead,

only to vanish—

the snow had hidden a cord,

and down he went!

We couldn’t stop laughing,

and even as he rose again,

he was still holding the tape—

his spirit never dropped.

And then the Borromean Islands,

sunlit and mischievous.

My mother, curious as ever,

poked her head through a stone archway—

and got stuck.

It took us a while to free her,

but we laughed until tears blurred the lake.

We rode bicycles through summers,

through stories,

through time itself.

My sister never came along,

but she was always with us—

in every retelling,

in every giggle that reached home.

Now they have journeyed on

to a world beyond my reach,

but I remain—

gathering their laughter,

their courage, their love—

and handing it forward

to my children,

so they too may know

the beautiful,

imperfect,

endless story

of us.