I remembered the story of water

I have moved through this life

like a river that knows its bends.

Not a wanderer,

but never one to stay in shallow places.

I have tasted salt in the wind,

stood barefoot in mud that clung like memory,

and known the silence of stones

better than the noise of people.

They say still water runs deep—

but I am not still.

Stillness, when it means surrender,

is not where I belong.

I am current.

I am tide.

I am the pull beneath what looks calm.

I have walked paths with others beside me,

and I have walked alone,

where only the trees bore witness.

Their branches did not question.

Their roots did not retreat.

They stood, and so did I.

There were days I felt like frost—

delicate and breakable—

but even then, I carried the memory

of fire beneath the earth,

waiting for its time.

I know now that not every companion is meant

to reach the next ridge with you.

Some leave when the path narrows.

Some forget to turn back

when they promised they would.

But the soil remembers my name.

The wind knows my scars.

The birds do not ask why I walk alone.

I come from watchers.

From those who know what is felt

even when it is not said.

I was not raised to chase words.

I was taught to watch the shape of footsteps,

to hear the weight in their leaving.

Still, I gave.

Not because I was lost,

but because I believed in nourishment—

in the sacred act of staying close

when the sky begins to shift.

But I cannot keep pouring

into hands that forget the value of water.

Now, I return to the land.

To the rhythm of stones underfoot

and leaves whispering truths

older than apology.

I speak now not to be heard,

but to remember myself.

The one who kept going

when the path fell silent.

The one who tended her fire

when others forgot the way home.

I am not broken.

I am not waiting.

I am not a question

in someone else’s story.

I am moss and bark and bone.

I am rain returning to the sky.

I am the space between lightning and thunder—

charged, alive, and unapologetically here.

I will not dry out

for those who do not bring water.

I will not dim

for those who never learned to see.

I walk forward now,

feet sure in the soil,

heart still full,

eyes on the horizon

where the next ridge waits.

Because I was never made

to stay behind.