We Gathered Nothing, and It Meant Everything

It felt like only me and my brother,

two shadows breaking into light,

bare feet against the warm breath of grass,

we wandered beneath the arched trees

not looking for anything,

but finding everything.

The field beyond our home

wasn't much—just earth and openness,

but we made it a world.

We crowned it with sticks and sun,

named its corners with secret codes,

searched the tall grass

for treasures no one else could see.

That memory—

of sky stretched wide

and no one calling us back too soon—

it means everything to me now.

Before the storm.

Before the leaving.

Before we learned how heavy real life becomes.

We didn’t gather much—

no photographs,

no saved letters,

just fragments of sound and color

we keep pressed behind our eyes.

But we gathered moments,

wild and unspoken:

the hush of twilight,

the sound of a branch breaking underfoot,

the feeling of being small

but never alone.

And now—

trapped in this world

of pain and pretend,

where everything has a cost

and wonder is rationed—

I gather still.

I gather the memory of that field,

the curve of the trees,

the silence before the storm.

I gather my brother’s laugh,

like a stone I refuse to set down.

I gather the ache

and call it something whole.

Because gathering

isn’t just about holding.

It’s about keeping,

when the world keeps taking.