Gabi Dagdag
about
heaven
This cottage,
timbered and soft with years,
is no mere shelter,
but a map of quiet mercies.
Its roof, heavy with wisteria,
sags like open arms,
a cascade of purple whispers
shielding the wounds of yesterday.
Inside - the walls breathe.
They hold no echoes
of a childhood’s clenched fist
The silence here…
is gentle
You, beside me,
are not the architect
but the keeper of keys.
Your presence weaves
between the cracks of old memories,
not erasing them
but showing me the edges
are dull now
Some days,
the ghost of my younger self
wanders the threshold,
eyes wide and untrusting.
You never chase her away.
You let her sit,
let her see
that this is not the home she feared
but the one she deserves.
This place,
this life with you,
is a small heaven built
with careful hands—
a sanctuary where broken things
are mended quietly,
where trauma is not banished
but coaxed into the light,
to rest, finally,
beneath the bloom of what we’ve made.