The Keepsakes of Small Things
I do not think the soul departs
with trumpets, bells, or grand goodbyes.
I think it lingers quietly
in humble, unassuming skies.
It settles in familiar things,
in weathered books and creaking floors,
in trinkets tucked in dusty drawers,
and memories behind closed doors.
Perhaps that is why I still stop
for little things left far behind,
for worn-out pages, faded notes,
and relics others never find.
Perhaps I know what waiting is,
to sit in silence, still and small,
to hope one day a hand might reach
and say you mattered after all.
The years have wandered through my bones,
some dressed in sunlight, some in rain,
some passing gently like a hymn,
and some arriving dressed as pain.
Yet strange keepsakes remain with me,
still resting softly in my care:
a reverence for wonderment,
a heart that notices who's there,
the quiet child beside the crowd,
the weary eyes that look away,
the lonely soul pretending strength
while trying hard to seem okay.
There are still rooms inside of me
where lanterns cast a golden glow,
where dragons sleep and stories breathe
and hidden worlds still wait below.
For life can make us practical,
can bid us set our dreaming down,
can teach us to lower hopeful eyes
and wear a cautious, guarded crown.
But something deep within me stayed.
Not whole. Not untouched. Not the same.
Just faithful as an ember's glow
still whispering beneath the flame.
And maybe that is grace itself,
that after all we've journeyed through,
the smallest treasures somehow stay,
still keeping little parts of you.
And there they sit through passing years,
like cherished friends beside the fire,
saving your place with patient hands,
until your wandering heart grows tired.
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