Where the Fire Was Kept

 I was not raised to demand answers. I was taught to observe. To read the trail before stepping onto it. To listen to what is not said. Real friendship, to me, is like tending a small fire. You do not stomp around it asking for warmth—you sit close, watch how it moves, add wood when needed. The ones I call true friends are those who know when the fire’s burning low without being told. They don’t wait for a signal to ask how I’m doing. They know. And if they don’t, they ask—not out of politeness, but because their spirit is tied to mine.

I do not come from a place where attention is affection. I come from a place where knowing is care. Where you notice when someone’s footsteps change. Where you remember how they carry pain, even when they smile. My friends are the ones who do not need to be reminded how I’m built. They already know that silence, for me, is not absence—it is healing, it is wind moving through the trees, it is space made sacred by trust. But silence that stretches too far, without the check of kindness, becomes something else. It becomes forgetting.

And I am not meant to be forgotten.

Friendship, to me, is not only in the speaking. It is in the daily tending, the watching of skies together, the checking of wounds without calling attention to them. It is someone seeing my tired eyes and saying, “I’m here today,” without asking for anything in return. It is not too much to talk daily—or nearly so—with those who know me best. That rhythm is not clinginess. It is medicine. It is the drumbeat of belonging. When days go by without a word, I do not feel peace. I feel the cold edge of a trail going quiet.

I can speak with all kinds of people. I was taught to listen between their words. But even so, I do not forget what friendship is. It is not one-sided storytelling. It is not showing up only when you need something. It is shared ground. It is two people who walk beside each other—not just when the sky is clear, but when the storm rolls in and vision narrows.

I will not beg to be seen. But I will remember who looked away. I will remember who stayed when my voice fell soft. Who kept the fire going when my hands were too tired. Who asked, “How are you really?” before I even knew I needed to be asked.

Because friendship, as I was taught, is sacred work. Not a favor. Not a sometimes thing. But a path that must be walked, together. And if you forget to walk it, I will not chase. I will sit with the wind in the trees and remember you quietly. But I will not forget myself in the waiting.