Seeded Memories

 A tiny hint of a seeded memory, tucked in the soft pockets of shadow, where toy trains once rattled and stuffed animals listened without judgment.

Rooted in darkness, fed by the quiet ache of yesterday, it drinks in streams of light the way a child drinks apple juice— face tilted, eyes closed, believing the sky is speaking just to them.

The soil loosens, and the seed pushes through with the stubbornness of first dreams,
blooming into strength that smells faintly of pencil shavings and the dust of forgotten hopscotch squares.

Wisdom unfurls— petals shaped like every lesson you didn’t know you were learning at the time— graced with beauty and compassion, stitched together from the laughter you lost and the kindness you kept.

Even the daisies pause, leaning toward you like witnesses to something they thought only the sun could create.

And there you stand— grown, but still carrying the warmth of the garden that once held you small.