My Mother Lived in Quiet Thing

She didn’t need
a stage
to be seen.

She lived
in quiet things—
the hum of the kettle,
the soft folding
of clothes,
the way her fingers
brushed hair
from my face
when I pretended
to sleep.

She wasn’t loud,
but everything
around her
listened.

The floor creaked
different
when she walked.
The air felt warmer
when she stood
by the window
humming old songs
to no one.

She never said
“I love you”
every day—
but she did say
“Did you eat?”
“Get some rest.”
“Wear a coat,
it’s cold outside.”

I didn’t know
those words
were love
until she
stopped
saying them.

Now the house
feels too big,
too still.

The kettle whistles
but no one comes.
The window hums
but no one sings.

And I sit,
remembering
how she made
a world
out of small things
and filled it
with care.

She never wore
a crown—
but she was
my queen.

And I’d trade
every loud applause
for just
one more
quiet moment
with her.