Remains of her

She never fully left.

What remained stayed behind—

quiet fragments of her

scattered through the way I see the world.

She lives in the words I use

without knowing where they come from,

in the way I sit with silence

when there are no answers,

in the quiet strength that appears

only when I believe

I have nothing left.

She taught me without meaning to.

She taught me how to endure.

How to keep going

when the body grows tired

and the soul begins to doubt.

She taught me that love does not always shout,

that sometimes it reveals itself

in what is done quietly,

without witnesses,

without expecting anything in return.

Much of who I am

was learned by watching her live

with more weight than she ever deserved to carry,

with more dreams

than she was allowed to fulfill.

There were things she wanted

and never reached.

Paths she only watched from a distance.

Choices she postponed

to care for others,

to hold everything together,

to survive.

And now, without asking for it,

those unfinished dreams

live on in me.

Not as a burden.

Not as a debt.

But as a quiet promise.

I want to do what she couldn’t.

Reach the places that were once unreachable for her.

Take the opportunities life denied her

and turn them into something worthy

of everything she was.

Not to replace her.

Never that.

But to honor her.

Because when I move forward now,

it isn’t only for myself.

It is also for her—

for the version of her

who deserved rest,

who deserved time,

who deserved care,

who deserved her dreams fulfilled.

I am, in part,

the remains of her.

And from that invisible inheritance,

I try to build something that matters.

Something that lasts.

Something honest.

Something that, somehow,

also belongs to her.