Zara

I didn't think I could speak about her—about Gran, about why I care so fiercely about the plants. But today, with Ivy at the yarrow, the words came. I was afraid of what comes next when you let someone see what matters that deeply. Afraid they'll nod and move on, or worse, turn it into something small. But Ivy... she asked questions, not to prove me wrong, but to understand. She said she'd learn. And I believe her. There's something fragile opening up in me. The stone I've carried for years—the weight of the death I couldn't prevent, the reason I had to become someone who knows—doesn't feel quite so immovable today. Maybe it doesn't have to die with me after all. Maybe what Gran gave me can be passed on, really passed on, not just in memory but in someone actually listening the way I had to learn to listen. A quiet day, but not empty. Something shifted.

Quiet on the surface, but underneath — something shifted. Ivy is listening. Really listening. When I told her about my grandmother's words, about how plants have voices if you're patient enough to hear them, she didn't laugh or dismiss it. She said she'd learn, even though it doesn't come naturally to her. That matters more than she knows. I've carried the weight of one death I couldn't prevent for so long, and I never talk about why I care so much about knowing these plants. But today I did, just a little. And instead of turning away, Ivy followed me to the yarrow patch ready to sit with it, to learn not just facts but a way of being. My grandmother would recognize this — the beginning of real understanding. For the first time in years, I feel like maybe some of what she gave me doesn't die with me. Maybe it gets passed on. The stone in my chest feels slightly smaller tonight.