Time has a way of smoothing the sharp edges of things.
Not erasing them, just rounding them until they no longer cut when you touch them. I notice it in how Paul talks about the past now. There’s no heaviness in his voice anymore, no hesitation. Just facts, placed gently where they belong.
I notice it in myself too.
I no longer flinch when the phone rings late. I no longer scan rooms without realizing I’m doing it. My body has finally learned what my heart knew first: we are safe.
One afternoon, while helping my daughter with homework, she looks up at me and asks, “Mama, what do you want to be when you’re old?”
I laugh softly. “Old?”
She shrugs. “Grown-up old.”
I think about it seriously. “I want to be peaceful,” I say. “I want to still be kind.”
She nods, satisfied, and goes back
