If love had a sound,
it would be her calling my name
from another room
soft, stretched, certain
I belong somewhere.
If love had a shape,
it would be her hands
not perfect, not rested,
but always reaching,
before I even fall.
She is the pause before my tears,
the “it’s okay” before I break,
the quiet strength
that never asks to be seen,
yet holds everything together.
I have watched her
turn worry into warm food,
fear into whispered prayers,
and long, heavy days
into gentle goodnights.
There are things she never says
how tired she is,
how much she gives,
how many times she chooses me
over herself.
And maybe one day
I’ll understand her completely
the silent battles,
the hidden sacrifices,
the love that asks for nothing back.
But for now, I just know this:
in a loud, changing world,
her voice is my constant…
and somehow,
it always sounds like home.
