21 Letters – #6 For Theresa
When the storms came
and the walls of home cracked with silence,
you were the wild garden
that grew where no one planted.
I found shade beneath your branches,
a sanctuary stitched in petals and roots,
where laughter could finally breathe.
You did not have to tend to us,
yet you carried watering cans
to the driest corners of my childhood,
nourished what others left to wither.
Your presence was sunlight through heavy curtains,
warmth that arrived without asking permission,
a hand that reached, steady and certain.
You have always been a wild rose:
thorned, unapologetic,
speaking truth as naturally
as vines climbing toward the sky.
Intelligent, fierce,
your voice a river cutting stone.
You showed me how to walk forward
even when knees shook,
how courage is not the absence of fear
but the choice to keep blooming
in rocky soil.
You are proof that sanctuary
can wear human skin.
That a woman can be
both refuge and revolution.
When I looked at you,
I saw the shape of the woman
I longed to grow into:
outspoken and sure,
creative and untamed,
rooted yet reaching,
always moving toward the sun.
So here is my thank you:
for every time you opened your arms
like a meadow,
for every time you stood tall
like an oak,
for every time you reminded me
that resilience can be beautiful,
that strength can wear flowers in its hair,
that care, freely given,
can rescue a child’s heart.
You did not have to
but you did.
And in your garden,
I learned how to bloom.