Up and Away

 

Up and Away

I remember when we were one family,

a DNA knot of brothers and sisters

moving through the world like a single identity.

Our house was loud, the table full,

and the future felt like a road we’d all walk together,

rarely imagining a day when the paths would split.

But time thins the strongest herd.

Anchors loosen and days slip away

Now the children of our children rise like small constellations,

each finding their own orbit,

drawn to whatever feels like home,

whatever light fits the shape of their own becoming.

Their gravity is gentler than ours ever was.

I see the cousins now,

how they form their own circles tight as fists,

How they choose which aunt or uncle

fits the story they’re writing.

Some of us now fade to the family edges,

not because of intent or harm,

But because they never knew

the version of us that once

held this thing together.

They don’t remember the old map.

They don’t know the roads we all walked

to keep the name alive.

They only know the fragments,

the pieces of stories that reached them,

the ones that felt familiar enough to keep.

And so the branches drift.

Branches not broken,

just bending toward different suns.

So I stand here,

one of the originals,

holding the memory of the whole family tree.

I can feel the distance,

But I also feel the roots,

deep, stubborn,

quietly insisting

that even scattered leaves

belong to the same soil.

On the Home Stretch Without Apology

 

I’m learning to guard the gates of my life,

to stop leaving the door wide open

for people who only wander through

out of curiosity.

Easy access to someone has a cost,

Paid it too many times

with trampled feelings and silence

where care should’ve been.

Age has a way of clearing the fog.

You can see the home stretch from here,

not in fear,

But in clarity.

There’s no time left

for pretending folks understand your heart

just because you’ve handed it to them.

No room for believing everyone likes you,

or loves you,

or even thinks twice about you

after they walk away.

I’m learning that a time investment

isn’t always mutual.

Some people take your years,

your prayers,

your presence

your goodness

and offer back only what’s convenient.

And when the pain of holding on

outweighs the pleasure,

It’s not disloyalty to let go.

It’s survival.

It’s wisdom.

It’s peace.

I’m taking stock now

of what I’ve given,

what I’ve lost,

What I still hope to leave behind.

Legacy isn’t built on who stayed close,

but on who I became

through the staying,

the breaking,

the rising,

and the choosing again

to walk forward with a steady heart and mind,

To honor the years I have lived

and the ones I'll leave behind.

To stop shrinking for people

who never learned to see me.

To step into the quiet truth

that not everyone is meant

to walk the whole road with me.

But we are still here!

still learning,

still loving,

still shaping the story

We’ll leave behind.

Without apology.

The House

 

The House

Our house was little,
like every other one on that street;
bedrooms packed tight,
The walls were doing their best
to stretch around a family
that never stopped growing.
Somehow, that house
held everything that mattered
without complaint.

It wasn’t just wood, windows, and nails.
It was the pulse of our growing-up days,
the quiet witness
to every messy, beautiful moment
that shaped who we became.

From the outside,
Our house looked humble.
Inside, it was anything but quiet.
Bedrooms were all shared,
Privacy was a borrowed luxury,
mornings were fought out
in a hallway too narrow
for all those elbows and attitudes.

The bathroom mirror witnessed it all.
the toothbrush wars,
the combs,
the rush,
the noise.
And still, it worked.

We learned each other
in that tight space,
every quirk,
every mood,
Every storm brewing
behind someone’s eyes.
You couldn’t hide in a house that little,
And maybe that was the gift.
A side glance, a joke,
a nudge at the right moment...
That’s all it took
to shift the weight
off someone’s shoulders.

The world felt so wide.
And the neighborhood felt like home,
porch lights and streetlights,
screen doors slamming to a rhythm,
lawnmowers humming through summer,
cars we knew by their sound alone.
Maybe it was an ordinary life,
but rich in a way you only understand later.

That house held the joy,
but it held the heartache too;
the losses,
the disappointments,
the days that felt too heavy.

When life pressed in,
The house softened the blow,
reminding us we weren’t alone.
Resilience grew there,
in the crowded rooms,
in the shared air,
in the way we made space
for each other
even when there wasn’t any.

Years passed.
We scattered.
The house grew quiet.
But its pulse still beats in me.
I can close my eyes
and hear the echoes,
the laughter from the kitchen,
the slam of the screen door,
the shuffle of too many feet
in too little space.

What stays isn’t the size of the house
or the condition of its walls,
It’s the feeling of it all.
The way it taught us empathy,
patience,
courage,
and the stubborn belief
that big dreams can grow
even in the smallest rooms.

That house didn’t just shelter us.
It shaped us.
And no matter where I go now
a part of it
still feels like home.

There Should’ve Been a Bench

 

There Should’ve Been a Bench

There should’ve been a bench

right there under the tree;

empty, yes, but never abandoned.

A place that holds its breath

the way the swamp always did

When I was young enough

to think silence was just silence.

The light slips through the branches

like it knows the way,

soft as a hand on a shoulder.

The tree leans in, listening.

The horizon waits without hurry.

Nothing moves,

yet something is always stirring

just beneath the stillness.

This isn’t a picture of absence.

It’s expectancy—

the quiet kind

that doesn’t announce itself

but settles in your chest

and stays.

Maybe someone once sat there

long enough to learn

what the world never teaches

when it’s loud.

Or maybe someone’s on their way,

drawn by the hush,

the shade,

the invitation to simply be.

The bench would wait without demand.

The tree would offer its cool shadow

without asking anything back.

Time would loosen its grip—

not to punish,

but to prepare.

That’s what the swamp meant to me:

the in‑between moments,

the breath before the prayer,

the silence before the reply,

the space where you finally hear

what your own heart’s been trying to say.

This painting whispers,

Stay a while. Be blessed.

wcd