Seeds of Yesterday

The Keepers of Small Things”

I have learned that life is made

of the quiet things we gather—

moments that slip through the world

like seeds spinning in the wind,

waiting for a gentle hand

to tuck them into memory.

My grandmother once told me

that nothing truly stays

unless we choose to keep it.

She would fold laughter into her apron

the way she folded warm bread,

saving it for days

when the house felt too still

and our hearts needed feeding.

I think of her often

as I harvest my own days—

the soft hum of morning light,

friends calling my name across a street,

rain pooling in my open palms

like a promise whispered by the sky.

These are the things that grow inside me

long after the hour has passed.

To gather is to love.

To say: I was here,

and so was the joy,

so was the ache,

so was the fragile, trembling moment

that could have vanished

but didn’t—because I caught it.

Tonight, I opened the drawer

where I keep the small treasures

that aren’t really objects at all—

a memory of warmth,

a name spoken softly,

a silence shared without fear.

I held them the way you hold a bird:

loose enough to let it breathe,

firm enough that it doesn’t fly away.

And I realized—

we are all gathering something.

Some collect victories,

some collect scars,

some gather the echoes of voices

that once guided us home.

As for me,

I gather light—

the kind that lingers on the edge of rooms

and on the edges of people,

soft, fleeting,

beautiful in the way only passing things can be.

I carry it with me

the way others carry heirlooms,

close to the heart

so it can glow through the dark.

For what we keep

shapes who we become;

and in that gentle act of keeping,

something of us

is kept as well.