Sunshine's Blog

Sometimes it is not the past
that returns,
but the space
where something should have lived.

A chair
that was never filled.

A voice
that never learned your name
in the way you needed.

You walk there gently now.

Not to rebuild,
not to ask again
for what was never given,

but to feel
the shape of the longing
without turning it into a home.

There is grief here—
quiet, wide,
like a field at dusk
where nothing grows
but everything is seen.

You stand in it
without collapsing.

You let the ache
touch you
and move.

Because it does now.

It moves.

And in that movement

something new is not forced—
not imagined—

but allowed.

Not a replacement,

not a forgetting,

just a soft knowing:

that what you longed for
was real,

even if it never arrived.

And now,
you do not abandon yourself
in its absence.

You stay.

And that changes
the whole landscape.