I’m going to place the secret of life in your hand.
Close your eyes.
Now that it’s resting there,
Tell me what you think it is.
Fingers fold around this object
The sense of touch forms countless ideas
The answers change
they always do.
Hope. Purpose. Time.
But when the hand opens
and reveals a tiny glass heart,
the truth is suddenly simple.
The secret of life is love.
You tell the story
the hardest speech you ever had to give,
your voice steady even when your heart wasn’t,
choosing love when grief could have spoken louder.
You never let that message fade.
You carry it daily
in small, quiet ways
acts of kindness given freely,
care offered without expectation,
love untethered from return.
You do it because it’s right.
Because it matters.
Because you carry his message forward.
Everywhere you go,
you find heart-shaped stones,
Heart shaped leaves,
Heart shaped everything
Eventually,
you pick up one of many
physical synchronicities
Something to hold
when you can no longer hold him
proof of the undeniable connection
between physical and spiritual energy
between a father and son
you bring them to his grave
you place them gently
a promise made again and again
that he is never left behind
that he will keep showing up and you will continue to notice.
He is with you
Always.
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