Harvesting What Lingers

Step softly.

The past is not stone —

it is glass covered in dust,

a fruit left too long in the sun,

sweet, fragile, ready to collapse at the touch.

Do not reach with both hands.

Use the quiet parts of yourself.

Let memory come to you like wind through a cracked window.

Do not pluck the moment too quickly.

If you do, it will bruise and turn bitter.

Some things can only be gathered in silence.

Bend close.

Listen for what remains beneath the noise —

the heartbeat of what was once alive.

It is slower now, but it has not forgotten its rhythm.

Carry the past the way you’d carry a nest:

not too tightly, not too loose,

enough to feel its weight without crushing it.

And when it starts to fall apart in your hands,

do not fight to keep it whole.

Memory is not meant to be preserved —

only tended to, gently,

like a garden you visit,

not a monument you build.

Step softly.

The past is a fragile harvest.

If you hold it carefully,

it will hum in your palms

and let you go without shattering.