Becoming Whispers | You Don't Discover By Thinking Harder

I'm in the garden this afternoon, pulling weeds, and I think of my grandpa.

Not in a sad way. Just... he's there.

I can see his hands, thick fingers, always warm, but worn from hard work, the way they'd rest on my shoulder when I was small. The weight of them. Solid. Certain.

I pull another weed and sit back on my heels.

I used to think that when people died, you lost access to what they gave you.

That the feeling of being held by them disappeared with their body.

But sitting here now, dirt under my nails, sun on my back, I realize: I can still feel it.

The weight of his hand on my shoulder.

The way his presence made me feel safe without needing to say anything.

I close my eyes and let the memory settle—not as something I'm chasing, but as something I already have.

I don't need him here to feel held by him.

I carry it. The way he saw me. The way he made space for me without asking me to be different.

It's mine now.

I open my eyes and look at the garden—half-weeded, messy, alive.

And I feel it again. That weight. That warmth.

Not from him reaching down from somewhere else.

From me. From my own memory of what he gave me.

I pull another weed and let the feeling stay.

I'm held.

Not by someone I'm waiting for. Not by someone I need to find.

By something I already carry.

And maybe that's enough.