Morgan Thomas
I go looking for her sometimes—
the girl I left behind.
She’s small in my memory now,
a faded silhouette
running through tall grass
I can’t quite reach anymore.
I call her name,
but the years echo louder.
They swallowed her laughter first,
then her wildness,
then the softness she carried
without ever knowing it was rare.
I search in the places
I once buried wonder—
between old fears,
under broken dreams,
inside the walls I built
to survive what she couldn’t.
Sometimes I catch a glimpse:
a flutter in my chest,
a spark behind my ribs,
a trace of sunlight
that doesn’t belong here.
But she’s shy now.
Skittish.
She doesn’t trust the world
that taught her to hide.
So I sit quietly,
hands open,
heart soft—
and wait.
I tell her I’m sorry
for leaving her in the dark.
For growing up too fast.
For trading her magic
for armor I never wanted.
And slowly,
like dawn slipping over the horizon,
she steps toward me—
barefoot, gentle, trembling.
She lifts her small hand,
placing it inside mine,
and for the first time in years
I feel something bloom:
A spark.
A warmth.
A remembering.
And I realize—
I never lost her.
She was just waiting
for me to come back
and finally
believe I was worth finding.