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WildWords - Trembling Leaves

It begins in obscurity,in the graying of the light,when the lilac leaves trembleone by one,like tiny green drumskissed by wet hands.I watch themand know something of prayer:not certainty,not brightness,not the approaching thunder of answer,but this—the dimming light,the damp touch,the fragile rhythm of what remains aliveeven when the whole worldseems to fadeat the edges.And I,quiet as the…

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🪷 Some Loves Aren’t Meant to Last—But They Teach You How to Begin

Some loves are not forever.

Some loves do not walk you down the aisle.

Some loves do not stay for winter.

Some don’t even stay until fall.

But they still matter.

They still soften something.

Sharpen something.

Pull a thread loose that needed to unravel.

They arrive like a song you didn’t know you knew all the words to.

They leave like a scent on your sweater you can’t quite name.

And when they go,

you are not the same.

Abilene gave too much.

Rosalina stayed too quiet.

Liliana carried what wasn’t hers.

Petunia burned brightly for boys who never thought to cup their hands around her flame.

None of those loves lasted.

But each of them began something.

Abilene learned that holy doesn’t mean hidden.

Rosalina found her voice in silence.

Liliana stopped waiting to be chosen and chose herself.

Petunia bought the dress for herself the next time.

The ache of love lost is not a failure.

It is a door.

A mirror.

A teacher.

It whispers:

Now that you’ve survived this, what will you do with what’s left of your heart?

You may not marry your first love.

You may not be remembered by the one you can’t forget.

But you will bloom.

Slower.

Wiser.

Softer in some places, stronger in others.

And one day—

you will look back

at all the almosts, the aches, the not-quites—

And you will say,

“Thank you for teaching me how to begin.”

🪴 What We Inherit From Silence

Some things aren’t written in wills. They’re passed through glances. Through the way a mother smooths her skirt before answering the door. Through the pause between “I’m fine” and what she really means.

Silence is a language. And the Milward girls grew up fluent.

Rosalina learned it in the way her mother said, “Let’s not make a fuss.” In the way her paintings stayed unfinished because no one asked to see them.

Liliana learned it in responsibility. In the quiet expectation that she would always be okay. That strength meant swallowing your pain whole and serving it as politeness.

Petunia learned it in shame. In the way no one said her name when she cried too loudly at dinner. In the closed-lip smiles that meant “Don’t bring that up.”

They inherited silence like a family recipe. Measured. Folded. Served cold.

It was stitched into tablecloths. Pressed into thank-you notes. Framed in school portraits where no one remembered what was happening the day they smiled.

But the thing about silence is— eventually, someone decides to break it.

With glitter. With tea spilled instead of served. With a ribbon worn proudly, not politely. With a truth spoken, even if it ruins the evening.

Because some inheritances aren’t meant to be kept. Some need to be named, to be questioned, to be buried gently in a garden that grows something better.

The Milward girls were not raised to shout. But one by one, they learned how to speak.

To say: That hurt me. To say: I want more. To say: I am allowed to feel. To say: Enough.

What we inherit is not always what we pass on.

Sometimes, love means unlearning. Sometimes, healing begins with a word you were never supposed to say out loud.

And sometimes, a garden grows best after the silence has been broken.

🪷 We Are Not Our Mothers, But We Were Once Their Girls

We say we won’t become them. And then— we catch ourselves pressing the crease in the tablecloth. Washing dishes in silence. Saying “I’m fine” with the exact same tilt of the head.

We say we are different. We wear louder lipstick. Speak our minds. Write poems instead of shopping lists.

And yet— we inherit things we didn’t choose.

The way our mothers flinched at compliments. The way they saved the “good” dishes and never used them. The way they said “Don’t make a scene” even when their hearts were breaking.

The Milward girls carry her in pieces.

Rosalina folds her sorrow into paintings she never finishes. Liliana holds the family together with hands that shake in secret. Petunia shines so loudly she hopes no one will notice she’s aching.

Their mother taught them grace. Composure. How to be palatable in a world that chews up softness.

She taught them how to stay quiet at the table. How to iron a dress until the wrinkles lie. How to love without asking for anything in return.

And still—

They bloom.

Differently. Defiantly. With voices, with questions, with glitter and grief and hope that smells like lavender and rebellion.

They are not their mother.

But they were once her girls. Twirling in Sunday dresses. Tracing her perfume bottles. Asking if they were pretty.

And in some small, aching way— they always will be.

But now, they are becoming something else.

Not smaller. Not sweeter. Not quieter.

But whole.

And maybe that’s the softest revolution of all.

🪴 How Grief Arrives Like Laundry Left in the Washer

Grief doesn’t always crash in. Sometimes it just sits there. Damp. Quiet. Undone.

Like laundry left in the washer overnight. You didn’t mean to forget it. You just got distracted. Or tired. Or thought someone else might get to it first.

But there it is in the morning— heavier than before. Carrying the weight of what you didn’t do, what you didn’t say, what you didn’t see coming.

And now it smells different. Not bad. Just… faded. Like something that was once clean but lingered too long in stillness.

That’s how it hits you.

Grief. In the coffee you forgot to finish. In the scarf you almost wore but didn’t. In the memory that rises during a grocery run because you passed their favorite snack.

It doesn’t slam. It drips. It waits. It curls around the back of your ribcage and reminds you: “I’m still here.”

You try to be grateful. To move on. To breathe like it doesn’t stick to your lungs some days.

But healing isn’t folding fresh towels. It’s pulling the weight out of the washer with wrinkled hands and deciding to run it again.

Even if no one sees. Even if it makes you late. Even if you cry while doing it.

Because grief doesn’t care about your to-do list. It just wants to be noticed. Rinsed. Wrung out. And maybe, finally, hung in the sun to dry.

🪴 What We Keep That Doesn’t Belong to Us Anymore

There are things we forget to throw away.

A sweatshirt that no longer smells like him. A receipt from a dinner no one remembers. A birthday card signed with a name that doesn’t call anymore.

We keep them.

Not because we need them. Not because we want them. But because letting go feels too final.

So we tuck them into shoeboxes. Drawers. Back corners of closets. Moments between moments.

We tell ourselves, “I’ll go through that later.” But later becomes a year. Then three.

And when we find it again— a note, a necklace, a pressed flower— we don’t cry. Not always.

We just feel it.

That version of ourselves who was still hoping. Still believing. Still trying to hold onto someone who had already let go.

Sometimes, it’s not about the object.

It’s about who we were when we received it.

The kind of girl who believed in magic. In second chances. In sweet texts at midnight that meant something real.

And maybe we don’t need the bracelet anymore. Maybe we don’t wear that shade of lipstick. Maybe we outgrew the book he said reminded him of us.

But we keep it. Because there’s something sacred in what we once wanted. Something holy in the ache that taught us to stop begging and start blooming.

What we keep says something. Even if it doesn’t belong to us anymore.

It says: I lived this. I loved here. I tried. I became.

And that is worth keeping.

Even if one day— you do let it go.

🪷 Let the Dead Things Rest: A Poem for What We Can’t Bring Back

Don’t water what has withered. Don’t whisper to a door that’s already closed. Don’t light candles for hands that never reached back.

Let it rest.

Let the sweater stay folded. Let the message stay unsent. Let the mirror reflect only who you are now.

Let the quiet be enough.

You tried. You forgave. You ached beautifully.

But you don’t have to live in the waiting room of what might’ve been.

You are allowed to bury what didn’t bloom.

You are allowed to leave the garden.

Let the dead things rest.

Let the birthday card remain unopened. Let the perfume fade. Let the silence stay unfilled.

Not everything is meant to be resurrected.

Some things are meant to be remembered and released.

So say thank you. And goodbye.

And then— close the drawer. Blow out the candle. Take off the ring.

And go to bed unhaunted.

🪴 The First Time I Said No Without Explaining

It wasn’t dramatic.

I didn’t slam a door. I didn’t cry. I didn’t rehearse a speech in the mirror.

I just said it.

“No.”

And that was it.

No excuse. No apology. No tangled explanation about being tired, or busy, or already having plans I didn’t have.

Just no.

And the silence that followed— it scared me.

Because I’ve always filled the quiet with justifications. “I’m sorry, I just…” “It’s not that I don’t want to…” “I promise next time…”

But this time, I didn’t do that.

And for the first time, I watched someone blink and wait for more— and I didn’t give it.

Because I’ve learned: A full sentence doesn’t need a paragraph.

Because I’ve learned: Saying “no” isn’t cruelty. It’s clarity.

Because I’ve learned: You don’t owe anyone the softness of your bones just because they ask for it gently.

And afterward, I felt shaky. Not from regret. But from release.

Like I had set down a bag I didn’t realize I was carrying.

And there was space— for breath, for quiet, for me.

So I sat with it. That small, sacred “no.”

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like closing a door. It felt like opening one.