you are a mosaic of borrowed light and shadow,

fragments pressed into your skin by hands you loved—

a mother’s lullaby in the tremor of your voice,

a friend’s laughter etched into your bones,

old regrets sharp as glass at your feet.

you stand at the edge of that scatter—

cupping each shard in open palms,

choosing which edges to soften,

which colors to let gleam,

which wounds to smooth with time.

from these pieces you build a hearth:

stones of kindness you found in strangers,

echoes of courage you claimed from your fear,

and the quiet glimmer of hope you learned yourself.

that hearth warms a path forward,

and on its embers you place new fragments—

your own first words, your own small triumphs—

so that someone else, years hence,

will find in you a light to sift by,

and learn how to gather their own glow.