whispers to the wind

At the end of every day, when the house goes quiet and her laughter fades into sleep, I step outside and talk to the wind. That’s where you are, isn’t it? I tell you how she smiled today— missing her two front teeth, but still lighting the whole damn room. You’d have laughed. I tell you how she scraped her knee trying to ride without training wheels. I held her while she cried, and I whispered what you’d say: "You’re tougher than you know, baby girl." Sometimes, I tell you things I can’t say to anyone else— how I’m scared I’m not enough, how I see you in her every day and it wrecks me in the best and worst ways. I told you when she made honor roll. When she kissed my cheek and called me her hero. You’d be proud of her… You’d be proud of me, I hope. I even told you about the first boy who made her blush— God help him. When she got sick, I sat beside her bed and begged you in silence to keep her safe. And when she opened her eyes, I swear, I felt your hand on my shoulder. I tell you when I lose it. When the loneliness is louder than her laughter. When the walls feel too tight and the silence feels like failure. But most nights… I just say thank you. For giving me her. For giving me the strength to keep going. She’s growing up fast. Smarter than me, braver than I deserve. You’d love her stories. You’d love her heart. One day, I’ll tell her how I talked to you every night. How you were never really gone. How her mama still walks these halls in wind and memory. Until then— I’ll keep whispering your name into the breeze that wraps around my chest like your arms used to. You’re still here. You never left. And I’ll keep you close in every breath, in every storm, in every quiet night of love.