small fires where silence grows

death is also a celebration of life—
not in the way fireworks crack the night sky,
but how ashes soften into soil
and feed the roots we never knew were growing.

when we gather in rooms
heavy with flowers and memory,
we speak to the space the soul once filled—
not to summon them back,
but to convince ourselves
we're not drifting farther from what they meant.

the eulogies,
the soft-spoken comforts,
the stories wrapped in trembling voices—
they are not for the one who left.
the dead do not need reminding.

they have become
what cannot be forgotten.

we speak for ourselves,
for the aching hands that still reach across empty chairs,
for the quiet laughter that surprises us in the kitchen
when we remember how they used to hum
a song we never asked the name of.

we are the ones who need the shape of meaning
in the outline of loss.
we give the silence something to echo against.
we stitch together our sorrow with memory
because forgetting
feels like the second death.

but listen—
grief is not the opposite of joy.
it is the proof it was ever there.

and so we light small fires
with their names,
their voices,
their half-finished sentences—
not to keep the dark away,
but to remember
we once danced in their warmth.

and even now,
in their absence,
we are still burning.