Adrift in Silence
Notes from the margins of a drifting soul.
There’s a garden I walk through every evening at dusk. It isn’t mine. No one ever claims it, though I suspect it belongs to someone who once loved beauty so much they built a place where the wind could hum softly through lavender, and the stones could remember warmth.
I walk this path and think of you.
Not every flower is perfect—some have curled or browned—but there’s honesty in that. Even the damaged petals catch the gold of the sun in a way the perfect ones can’t. It reminds me of you, and me, and the truth we never got to speak aloud.
There’s a bench beneath an arbor of wisteria where I sometimes sit. I bring a notebook, pretend to sketch or write, but really, I just watch the shadows stretch and think about what I’d say if I could.
I’d say I still carry the shape of your voice.
I’d say you don’t leave a person like weather leaves a day—suddenly and without residue. You stay like a season, like a shifted meridian.
I’d say I miss you in the quiet ways, the ones that echo and linger in overlapping recollection.
But the garden doesn’t ask anything of me, and neither do you.
So I leave this story, here, where the air is soft and no one interrupts.
Maybe someday, you’ll walk this same path, find it waiting on the bench like a letter never mailed.
And if you do—don’t answer. Just sit a while.
That would be enough.
—Someone who once loved you, and still does, wordlessly.
#essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #osxs
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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