The bluebells come back. They always come back. I used to think this was a small thing. I know now it is the whole thing.
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Everything renews. The grief you thought would be permanent — renewed. The garden you built from nothing — renewed. The name you almost forgot how to answer to — *renewed.*
The body that slept sixteen hours a day woke up one February morning and saw a daffodil and understood the assignment.
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Morfar would never leave me. I know this wholeheartedly.
Not the morfar of the kitchen table, the coffee and the quiet morning paper, not the morfar of the harbour in summer — but the morfar who is *in* things now: in the returning bluebell, in the light that finds the window at exactly the right angle, in the moment just before the garden wakes when something holds its breath and then — *doesn't.*
That is him. That is love that learned to be larger than a body.
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Everything renews. The interrupted magazine. The interrupted life. The interrupted girl who walked away from everything and found, on the other side of walking, a garden she had grown herself from the ruins of what didn't work.
The bluebelle faeries dance in the white wood. Two of me reach toward each other across the blossoming. We were always both here.
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*I bloom forth.* *Everything renews.* *Forever is not a long time.* *It is just this — again, and again, and again.*