Even Unwitnessed

Alone.

Again, alone.

Balanced on the thin edge

between what is closing

and what has not yet opened.

Sorrow moves in quietly—

a door easing shut,

silence gathering

in the corners.

Well-intentioned friends grow afraid.

They hold my history

like fragile glass.

So they raise walls

and name them safety—

brick by careful brick,

mortar softened with love.

If I remain within the lines,

their breathing steadies.

Dementia built its own house—

rooms that forgot their purpose,

windows that would not clear,

hallways circling back on themselves.

Good intentions pour foundations.

Love fits the door

with a lock.

And I am asked

to live inside

what was built for protection.

But how does anything grow

without leaning into resistance—

without the ache of pressure

against stone—

without falling

and rising,

falling

and rising again?

God did not thunder.

He entered like breath—

a quiet knowing:

You will endure this.

And so I rise.

Unapplauded.

Unwitnessed.

I rise.