The Things I Carry Forward

I used to think gathering

was only about holding on—

hands full, pockets stretched,

heart tired from the weight

of what I refused to release.

But I’ve learned that gathering

is gentler than that.

It isn’t hoarding moments

or gripping memory like a rope—

it’s choosing what deserves

to travel with me.

I gather slow now.

I gather softly.

I gather the way dawn gathers light—

quietly,

without asking permission,

without needing applause.

I gather the sound of my mother’s laugh,

the kind that makes the walls

feel warmer.

I gather the way my father’s silence

taught me to listen for what isn’t said.

I gather moments

that almost slipped through me—

the small kindnesses,

the unexpected mercies,

the prayers answered

in ways I didn’t recognize

until months later.

I gather the strength

from every version of me

that didn’t know if he’d make it—

the boy who held too much pain,

the man who held too much pride,

the soul who held on

when letting go

felt easier.

I gather the words

that saved me—

the ones whispered,

the ones cried,

the ones God placed in rooms

before I ever walked into them.

I gather all that shaped me,

but not all that hurt me.

Pain teaches,

but it doesn’t get to travel.

And maybe that’s the real harvest—

not the things we grip tight,

but the things we choose

to keep.

What a gift

to be whole

from so many pieces.