The Message

An ode to the permission to live

There are messages that come not in words, but in whispers of the soul.
This piece is born from such a moment.

After publishing the first poem on my mother, I had a vivid dream of her that felt more like a visitation. It carried with it a truth I didn’t know I was ready to hear.

It is both poem and memory, both a gift and release.
I call it The Message.

She came to me in half-sleep,
walking by the water’s edge,
where shadows vanish into dawn.

Her black curls returned,
her body clothed in white.
The air was imbued with her soft presence—
not the dark silence I remembered,
but a loving quiet that breathed.

She smiled — just enough for me to see
the sweetness that the world had taken,
or perhaps I had forgotten.

And though she did not speak aloud,
my soul heard what she was saying:

My daughter, do not live for me anymore.
Do not carry my unsung songs,
my unlived, unfinished years.
Do not mistake my silence for your burden.

Live your life for you.
Love as only you can love.
Be as only you can be.
That will be more than enough.
That will be everything.

The lake rippled as if in response.
The rising sun lit up a lone tree in its center,
rooted where no tree should stand—
alive where no life should have been.

And I understood.

Some lives bend,
some break.
But some continue in ways we cannot see,
growing where the soil—
or the lack of it—
looks impossible.

Her sorrow was gone.
This was my permission.
A new slate.

My inheritance was not her silence.
It was-it had always been- her smile.

Thank you for reading❤️

If this little poem brought you a moment of stillness, I’m glad.
I believe silence is a kind of grace, and that poems, too, can offer us rest.

You’re warmly invited to subscribe if you haven’t already, to keep receiving gentle notes and slow stories like this one.
Feel free to share with someone who you believe might need a breath of calm today.

And if you’re already here, I thank you. Truly.
You make this quiet corner of the internet feel like home.

With ink and light and, maybe an essence of vanilla,

Lia

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