Asides

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At the edge of the fields, the farmhouse leaned into the wind, as if it had grown tired of resisting. The porch sagged where weight had lingered too long. The boards, weathered and worn by time, had long since ceased to carry an echo. Words had seeped into the grain, softened and consumed completely.

Rain slapped sideways, worming into every corner. It turned closeness into distance, made silence feel jagged—volatile. Conversations had once moved freely through the space, light and effortless, until they began to stretch too far, lose shape, and vanish altogether.

The door drifted open, an unspoken confession begging reprieve. Rain-soaked flannel clung to his shoulders; muddy boots scarred the boards. His fingertips skimmed the table rim, then the chair back, tracing surfaces bruised by tenderness and friction. He paused where her breath once lingered, held fast by a memory of love and fury.

He stepped back into the room; the memories embedded in the floorboards held fast. By the window stood the one left behind: still, watchful, marked by what remained. The space held more than either voice could carry. A loose plank beneath the porch ticked like a clock out of rhythm. Time wasn’t moving.

He stared at the place where the shadow of their past still lingered. The rain had caught him on the way, soaking through his coat, sliding down his neck, and pooling in the folds of the fabric. It clung to him like a memory, speaking the words he couldn’t bring himself to say.

By morning, the boots were gone, but the flannel stayed. Even when absence is all that’s left, some things remain—lingering long after the storm has passed.

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Unworn
A Poem by Kerry Ann Wiley

It wasn’t the rain
that undid the stillness.
Not the coat left damp,
or the porch light
blown out by morning.

It was the quiet
that climbed in after—
took off its shoes
and settled,
like it had always belonged.

By autumn,
the wind arrived differently.
Too polite.
Slipped through the frame,
like it had been gone too long to knock.

If there’s ever a return,
no questions.
Just the flannel—
left where it always was,
draped like it carried
the outline of what had been,
the weight of what never fully left.
And the storm,
still rumbling in the distance,
trying to finish what it began.

Inside,
nothing had shifted.
The hook still held the flannel
like a hand that hadn’t let go.
The floor still gave
that faint shift, like it remembered where weight used to rest.
The wind still slipped through its old opening
carrying meaning—
too subtle for words. Silence spoke in return.

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The farmhouse told its story: storms survived, silences learned.
A flannel shirt hung like a coat and an unspoken promise, its warmth a trace of what once was.

Outside, the wind stilled after the rain, honoring the silence.
Secrets remained—unspoken.

When loss appears as a late-night call or a voice in the kitchen that falters, the chest constricts. The body notices before the mind can follow. Grief arrives and reshapes everything it touches.

A person may settle into a special chair without realizing it. The mind then turns back to a final conversation, to what was spoken and to what remained unspoken. Unsaid words linger.

Comfort appears in many forms. Neighbors bring warm meals. Kind messages arrive with phrases such as “Thinking of you” and “So sorry for your loss.” Such care matters, yet the atmosphere in the house feels heavier than before. Even in a crowded room, loss moves through the body like a shadow that stays—familiar and unshakable.

Memories emerge without warning. Old messages replay, voicemails are revisited, and grainy videos are watched not out of habit but for a brief sense of closeness. Grief comes fast or slow—a jacket out of place, a scent that shouldn’t be there, a pause that lasts too long. It changes how people leave, how long they stay, and what is said in between.

Those first days feel suspended. Sleep doesn’t soften the edges. Dreams carry memory and want so closely they’re impossible to tell apart. The pain returns with the morning, unchanged.

Over time, grief changes. It doesn’t disappear, and the hope that it might is more comfort than truth. The sharp edge softens. What was once overwhelming becomes something quieter, something that lingers without overtaking everything. Little by little, space opens again—for laughter that doesn’t feel like betrayal, and for gratitude that can hold pain without trying to erase it.

There is a before and an after—whoever existed before loss does not return, and whoever emerges afterward is changed by all that has been carried. Over time, the ache softens. It does not disappear, but it no longer overwhelms. The ache makes room for connection, for joy, and for a life that continues—altered but whole. There are moments when standing in the sun or placing a hand on someone’s shoulder helps make the next step feel manageable. In those simple acts, moving forward starts to feel possible.

When grief returns—and it will—it doesn’t come as a surprise. The way through is familiar, not because it hurts less, but because it’s been walked before. In that familiarity, there can be a kind of steadiness. Loss doesn’t end, but love doesn’t leave either. It stays, steady and present, long after the person is gone. These moments open space for connection and remind us that even in grief, hope still has a place.

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Disconnection often arrives quietly, hidden in familiar routines. Daily rituals continue: the sticky note reminders, gentle good-night texts, quiet dinners at the usual table.

On the surface, all seems intact, giving the impression that everything is steady. Yet, beneath the calm, something subtle has shifted, unseen at first, yet unmistakably felt over time.

A pause lingers in the space where ease once dwelled. The words remain, gestures appear unchanged, but an intangible warmth and tenderness is fading. A spark that once felt certain now drifts just out of reach—though familiar, it slips away before it can settle.

Kindness still comes, but it feels different now. It carries a bit of awkwardness, like being handed a coat just as the weather turns warm. It remains thoughtful and generous, yet somehow feels off. A gesture that once fit comfortably now feels constricting. The offering, though kind, highlights a subtle discomfort—a once-familiar space now unfamiliar.

The body adapts. It slowly refrains from reaching toward gestures that no longer feel welcomed, not shutting down, but carefully recalibrating. Gradually, it rediscovers its shape, its own contours, relearning its own form. Even familiar acts now carry a quiet shift; kindness remains, but its touch has changed.

This subtle absence invites deeper listening—to what goes unspoken and what no longer happens. In those quiet spaces, attention turns to what still remains.

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Echoes of Quiet
A poem by Kerry Wiley

begins
when the air forgets
the weight of what it carried.

Light brushes the skin—
brief, indifferent.
Sound flinches through the dark,
already losing its name.

Questions start
but fade mid-thought.
Names spoken aloud
no longer reach.

Even kindness
feels misplaced,
like a coat
offered in summer’s heat.

What once warmed
now watches.
Silence once gentle
now widens distance.

No invitation,
just quiet acceptance:
there is nowhere left
to be received.

The body stays still.
not refusing,
simply vacant.

No failure,
no forgetting.
Only the sense
that trusted doors
now open toward the dark.

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Connection doesn’t always vanish; sometimes it just recedes. Presence lingers, gestures remain, but something once vital begins to fade. Familiar routines carry on, echoing past connection, even as the warmth within them grows faint. What once felt natural now requires effort. The body, once leaning easily into closeness, begins to hold itself differently—more cautious, more aware of where the edges now lie.

Silence deepens, not from absence but from change. Nothing has come undone—not quite. Yet something once offered without hesitation is gone. Kindness still arrives, yet its shape has shifted. In the spaces between what is said and what is felt, a question lingers: when presence stays but no longer reaches, what becomes of the ache that’s left behind?

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The call came on a Saturday. It was several hours later than expected, and yet it still felt far too early.

I was sitting on the couch, folding laundry. Towels rested in a soft pile beside me, along with faded t-shirts, a pair of jeans worn thin at one knee, and pajama pants stretched out of shape.

It was the kind of task that demanded no thought—just the repetition of motion, steady and mindless.

When the phone lit up, it went unanswered at first. It rang once, maybe twice. The outcome was already clear. A quiet certainty had settled in—sharp and still—before a single word was spoken. The voice on the other end was flat and measured. It didn’t offer comfort, only facts. She was gone.

She used to brush the hair from my eyes and slip me orange soda when my mother said no. She always left the screen door unlatched, just in case someone came for a visit. Now she was gone.

It was just a regular Saturday. Two weeks had passed since I last called her.

Still, the news caught me off guard. That’s how it happens, isn’t it? Plans are made—a call, a visit, a promise that there’s still time. The hours slip by, spent on small, forgettable chores that feel important in the moment. It is easy to believe they matter. Then a door closes, and everything stops. I’m left standing in the silence, a towel in my hands, too stunned to move.

Afterward, I sat on the couch beside the stack of folded laundry. The hum of the dryer had stopped, but I hadn’t noticed. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. A child’s laugh drifted past the window. Everything else continued. I was the only one who hadn’t.

No one expects the emptiness to feel so ordinary. One minute, they are there—sending cards in the mail, leaving voicemails just to say hi, folding a joke into every conversation.

Then, without warning, there is only silence. The phone does not ring back. The house is too far away to check. The people we grew up with seem ageless until the quiet becomes routine.

Her laugh used to carry across picnic tables and church halls. It was a sound stitched into summer reunions and holiday gatherings. Bold floral prints made her easy to spot.

She never seemed afraid of being seen. She was the hardest worker, always moving from one task to the next faster than most. It felt like she was racing an invisible clock no one else could hear. There is still a note on her fridge. Her handwriting curls gently across the paper: “Don’t forget the little things.” No one has moved it.

Sometimes people slip into the background, becoming a quiet fixture of what is routine—steady, familiar, and almost unnoticed. Then, without warning, they are gone. Something quiet but anchoring slips out of place.

It came on a Saturday. It came while the coffee sat cooling in its cup.
It came while the laundry was only half folded.

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Loss doesn’t always look like change. Sometimes, it looks like everything staying exactly as it was. It’s a coat still hanging by the door in June. It’s a second coffee cup, rinsed and returned to its place, but never used. It’s a voicemail that’s been saved, but never played. It’s the chair no one dares to move. It’s the porch light left on long after the habit should have faded. It’s a calendar still turned to the month they left. It’s the door that no longer gets locked—because no one is expected anymore.

“The House Didn’t Notice” offers a quiet reflection on what is often overlooked and forgotten. It rests in the spaces that remain untouched, the words left unspoken, and the tensions that have yet to find their release.

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The House Didn’t Notice
(A poem by Kerry Ann Wiley)

What passed for morning
was colorless wind.
No song came through—
just the weight
of once.

Walls remembered laughter
but held only dust.
The table stayed set,
but the hands never touched.

No names were spoken.
No doors were locked.
Only a leaving
that didn’t need steps.

The sky
did not open.
The sky
did not fall.
It stood still,
watching nothing at all.

The flame curled inward.
The sea turned its face.

No place was waiting.
No grace remained.
No ending.
Just the rhythm
of staying the same.

The poem begins with a denial of renewal. Morning arrives drained of color, stripped of the brightness and sound that might have marked the promise of a new day.” “No song came through— / just the weight / of once.” The air is thick with what used to matter.

Even wind—the usual symbol of movement—is dulled. This isn’t a beginning. It’s a hollow continuation.

The lines settle into something quieter, touching on the emptiness left behind. “Walls remembered laughter / but held only dust.” Memory becomes ambient, clinging faintly to structures that no longer contain life. The table remains set, its form untouched, but the hands it waited for never returned. It’s like a clock still ticking in an abandoned room—time moving forward, but with no one left to meet it.

By the third stanza, motion itself is erased. “Only a leaving / that didn’t need steps.” There is no clear departure, no defined point of exit. What remains is not a trace but an absence, and the doors stay unlocked—not from trust or welcome—but because there is no longer any reason to protect what no one will ever return for.

Then the sky enters—not to witness, not to respond—but to remain unaffected. “The sky / did not open. / The sky / did not fall.”

The passage speaks to a deep sense of loneliness and emotional emptiness. The sky appears simply as something distant and untouched. It isn’t seeing. It just is. This silence and stillness echo the emptiness felt inside, as if the outside world reflects the same kind of numbness. Nothing changes. Nothing responds. The world remains cold and indifferent, just like the sky above.

Even the elements withdraw. “The flame curled inward. / The sea turned its face.” These are not signs of rage or sorrow. What unfolds here is a quiet subversion of the expected behavior of the natural elements—fire and water—when influenced by emotion.

Instead of rising in a dramatic display, the flame curls inward and the sea turns its face in a gesture of retreat. These are not outbursts of fury or grief, but restrained, almost reverent responses—an emotional withdrawal expressed through stillness rather than force.

It’s as though even these primal forces are overcome, not by a lack of feeling, but by emotion so profound it defies outward expression. Instead of flaring or crashing in dramatic display, the fire contracts and the ocean turns away. The intensity remains, but it manifests not through motion, but through stillness and retreat. Here, emotion pulls back, heavy with meaning.

The final lines resist closure, offering instead a purposeful absence of resolution. “No place was waiting. / No grace remained. / No ending.” These stark phrases convey neither conclusion nor transformation, withholding any sense of progression or relief. Rather than moving forward, the piece loops back on itself, returning to “the rhythm / of staying the same.”

In this repetition, meaning unfolds through what is left behind. It lingers in the hollow resonance, in the stillness that echoes softly through familiar spaces. It lives in the quiet vacancy where movement once stirred and emotion once took shape.

In the end, “The House Didn’t Notice” captures a grief so quiet it hides in the repetition of everyday rituals—the flick of a light switch, the untouched place setting, the door that stays ajar. The silence isn’t empty. It holds the residue of what once was, suspended.

The stillness speaks. The elements pull back, the sky holds its breath, and the house remains. The power lies not in what grief changes, but in what it leaves the same. In that sameness, the weight of absence quietly takes root.

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Certain endings become visible only in hindsight. They tend to favor the back door rather than the spotlight. Often, they begin with a pause that stretches too long, a glance that doesn’t return, or a sentence left unfinished.

There is no sharp turn and no sudden conclusion to mark the end. Instead, there is recognition that something meaningful has shifted and will not return. The departure is not marked by a clean break but by a subtle understanding: everything that remains now exists just out of reach. What settles in is not apathy, but a quiet acceptance, an honest sense that it is truly over and that what lingers no longer asks to be chosen.

This poem begins there—not in the heat of what was lost, but in the still place that follows.

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Everything After Red
By: Kerry Ann Wiley

Lungful of ash.
No fire in sight.
Only the twitch of something unclaimed,
beneath a skin never asked to be worn.

The frame turns inward.
Softness learns how to brace.
Names fall away,
one, then another.
One catches on the tongue,
but the mouth closes around air.

What moved was not wind.
What stayed did not settle.
The sky folded at the corners
and split down the center.
No apology. Just red.

Somewhere, a question gives out,
losing its spine.
The answer lingers in the heat,
spoiled,
like meat left too long in the sun.

No reins.
No sea.
Only the sound
of a throat
choosing not to call it back.

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This poem does not begin with heat or conflict. It begins in the quiet aftermath—where the fire has already passed. There is no promise of return and no path back to what once was.

From its opening breath, the poem offers only ash without flame—a stillness that settles in the absence of heat. What remains is stripped of sentiment.

Lines such as “the frame turns inward” and “softness learns how to brace” reflect what happens when explanation becomes too much to carry. These lines do not suggest surrender. Rather, they reveal a shift in stance. Softness does not disappear; it reshapes itself. Where clarity once came through language, now it arrives in the pause that follows.

The names come next; once familiar and tied to ordinary moments, they gradually begin to slip away. Even when one returns and “catches on the tongue,” it remains unspoken. Choosing not to say it is not about fear. It is about knowing that speaking it would only stir the ache. Some truths do not need to be voiced to be real. Letting them go can become an act of mercy.

The break arrives without warning. As the poem states, “The sky folded at the corners and split down the center.” This moment is not chaos and not collapse. It is an irreversible shift that occurs without permission or negotiation. The next line—’No apology. Just red.’—offers no clarity, no reassurance; only defiance. It names the wound as it is: raw, immediate, and beyond undoing. There is no metaphor here and no softened meaning—only finality, bare and unflinching.

Even the question begins to dissolve. “Losing its spine,” it slips out of shape. The answer—if it ever existed—rests somewhere in the heat, untouched. There is no attempt to recover it. The poem does not try to resolve what has been lost. Some things are meant to remain where they fall.

The ending doesn’t strike—it recedes, beginning in absence rather than force. The lines read, “No reins. No sea.” There is no path forward and no current left to carry anything away. The absence of reins suggests that there is nothing left to guide, no direction that can be forced.

Without the sea, there is no tide to wash anything clean and no movement to ease the weight of what has been lost. What remains is a single, quiet choice: “a throat choosing not to call it back.” That moment does not beg, and it does not break. It holds still. It reflects the strength to remain outside what has already ended—not from numbness, but from understanding that not everything is meant to be returned to.

Everything After Red does not attempt to make peace with what is gone. Instead, it honors the decision not to go after it. Some endings do not ask for closure; they ask to be left alone. Some truths do not need to be spoken twice. Sometimes, the clearest answer is the silence that follows.

The poem ends where most won’t linger: the aftermath. What is left can’t be salvaged, and what remains isn’t worth the reach. It does not circle back, and it does not feign resolution. It stands still—stripped bare, deliberate, and unflinching.

This is not a lament for what was lost, but an honest reckoning with the moment it no longer felt worth returning to. In that refusal, in that stillness, the poem makes its final mark—not through sound, but in the silence of all that remains unsaid.

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Spastic diplegia may change how a journey begins, but it doesn’t define where a person can go. If you live with it, or love someone who does, you already know this: spastic diplegia isn’t just about tight legs or awkward steps. It is about waking up and negotiating with muscles that won’t quite cooperate.

Technically, it’s the most common form of spastic cerebral palsy, affecting roughly one in every 345 children in the United States (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 2020). Within that statistic lies a wide range of experiences, but spastic diplegia primarily affects the legs, making walking and balance an everyday challenge.

It is frequently associated with premature birth and a specific type of early brain injury called periventricular leukomalacia, which damages the white matter responsible for motor control. What stands out today isn’t only the condition itself, but how far our understanding and treatment strategies have come—and how much further they can still go.

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Understanding the Diagnosis: Who Is Affected and Why

Most people don’t set out to learn about cerebral palsy. Yet for many, it becomes part of their lives quietly and without warning. Over time, it grows into something personal and deeply significant.

Medical language that once felt remote begins to resonate in unexpected ways. For many families, this connection starts even before their baby leaves the neonatal intensive care unit.

Spastic diplegia is most often diagnosed in babies born prematurely. The risk increases the earlier a baby is born. Infants born before 28 weeks of gestation or with a very low birth weight are especially vulnerable (Cerebral Palsy Guide, n.d.). Injuries to the developing brain caused by a lack of sufficient oxygen or blood flow can later appear as spasticity, muscle stiffness, or delays in motor development.

Even when the cause is understood, the diagnosis can still feel overwhelming. Families wonder about the future: Will their child walk, play, or keep up with peers? Will they face pain or isolation?

Despite the unpredictability, the future holds many possibilities. Spastic diplegia does not follow a predetermined path, and that unpredictability can offer its own form of hope.

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Progress in Treatment: Evolving Therapies and Early Intervention

A few decades ago, treatment for spastic diplegia largely revolved around managing deficits. Standard protocols included physical therapy, orthotic braces, and sometimes surgery.

These interventions focused more on symptom control than on encouraging development. Therapy often felt like something done to the child rather than with them.

Today, the approach to diagnosing cerebral palsy has changed significantly, allowing for earlier detection. An MRI can provide detailed images of the brain to help identify any areas of injury or abnormal development.

The Hammersmith Infant Neurological Examination, or HINE, is a simple, hands-on check that doctors use to assess a baby’s movement, reflexes, and posture. The General Movements Assessment looks at how babies move naturally, helping specialists spot patterns that may suggest a higher risk of cerebral palsy, even in very young infants.

These advancements make it possible to diagnose many children with cerebral palsy before their first birthday (Novak et al., 2020). This timing is crucial. Early intervention takes advantage of the brain’s plasticity during the first year of life, potentially leading to significantly better long-term outcomes.

Therapy now focuses on practicing real-life movements, such as walking up stairs, getting into a car seat, or reaching for a favorite toy. This kind of functional, engaging activity helps children learn by doing. When therapy aligns with everyday tasks, it can lead to more effective responses from both the brain and body.

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Therapeutic Tools: What’s Available and What Works

Spastic diplegia doesn’t lend itself to a single, universal treatment. Every child’s experience is unique, and the most effective care plans are tailored accordingly.

Physical therapy remains a cornerstone of treatment. Stretching spastic muscles, strengthening weaker ones, and working on balance are foundational aspects of any treatment plan. Increasingly, these efforts extend beyond clinical settings. Families are encouraged to weave therapeutic activities into everyday routines so that progress becomes part of what they already do.

Botulinum toxin injections—commonly known as Botox—are sometimes used to temporarily relax specific muscles. This can lead to improved mobility and may reduce the need for bracing (Packer, 2020). The effects can vary from person to person and should be evaluated carefully. While the results are not permanent, they can still play a meaningful role in a broader treatment plan.

For children with more widespread spasticity, oral medications such as baclofen may be prescribed. These medications work by acting on the central nervous system to help reduce muscle tone throughout the body. Because they can cause side effects, careful monitoring is essential (Packer, 2020).

A promising shift in treatment today is the move toward flexibility and family-centered care. Instead of relying on a one-size-fits-all model, therapies are now tailored to reflect each child’s unique strengths, priorities, and daily rhythm. This adaptability allows care to respond to real needs rather than impose rigid routines.

Families are no longer passive observers—they are recognized as essential partners in shaping what treatment looks like. A family-centered approach values their insight, preferences, and lived experience, helping to create plans that are both meaningful and sustainable.

Progress is measured not only by motor improvements but also by increased independence and greater engagement—in play, in relationships, and within the broader community.

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Emerging Possibilities: Technology and Innovation in Care

Advances in therapy for spastic diplegia are accelerating, with technology playing a growing role in how care is delivered and experienced.

One promising development is the use of robotic exoskeletons. These wearable devices, currently in clinical and research trials, are showing potential to support more natural walking patterns, build strength, and promote proper muscle activation (Rao & Cruz, 2023). For children who’ve long had to work around their limitations, this technology offers new ways to work with their bodies.

Functional electrical stimulation (FES) is another tool gaining ground. By sending targeted electrical pulses to specific muscles, FES can support more natural movement—particularly helpful for challenges like foot drop (Rao & Cruz, 2023).

Beyond high-tech interventions, accessible innovations are also making an impact. Telehealth visits, family coaching, adaptive equipment, and smart orthotics that offer real-time feedback are helping make therapy more engaging, effective, and tailored to individual needs.

However, access to these tools remains uneven. Geography, insurance coverage, and income all influence what care is available. The next challenge isn’t invention—it is ensuring that innovation reaches every child who could benefit. Moving forward, the focus must be on expanding access—so that progress isn’t determined by where a child lives or what a family can afford.

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The Human Element: Why Relationships Still Matter Most

For all the medical breakthroughs and advanced tools, some of the most meaningful progress in supporting individuals with spastic diplegia begins with people.

It happens in small, consistent moments: a therapist celebrating a hesitant step, a parent learning to ease stiffness with care. A child meets difficulty with focus, sometimes frustration, but keeps going.

Support today comes from a network of people working together—therapists, doctors, educators, and family members, each bringing their perspective and care. They listen closely, collaborate, and adjust plans in response to real-life experiences and changing needs.

This kind of partnership is reshaping treatment and long-term outcomes. Therapy is no longer something handed down from above. It is a shared effort, where success is reflected not only in clinical progress but in growing confidence, and the steady rise of independence.

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Continuing the Journey

Spastic diplegia may shape how movement begins, but it doesn’t define where growth can go. Advances in early diagnosis, functional therapy, adaptive technologies are opening more doors to meaningful participation.

Family-centered care and flexible supports now reflect each child’s individuality—their timing, priorities, and potential. Progress isn’t only measured by milestones; it’s found in presence, in belonging, and in the opportunity to participate and take part. Often, that is where the most lasting change begins.

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References

• Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2020). Data and statistics for cerebral palsy. https://archive.cdc.gov/www_cdc_gov/ncbddd/cp/data.html
• Cerebral Palsy Guide. (n.d.). Cerebral palsy statistics. https://www.cerebralpalsyguide.com/cerebral-palsy/statistics/
• Novak, I., Morgan, C., Adde, L., Blackman, J., Boyd, R. N., Brunstrom-Hernandez, J., … & Badawi, N. (2020). Early, accurate diagnosis and early intervention in cerebral palsy: Advances in diagnosis and treatment. JAMA Pediatrics, 171(9), 897–907. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC9666139/
• Oskoui, M., Coutinho, F., Dykeman, J., Jette, N., & Pringsheim, T. (2013). An update on the prevalence of cerebral palsy: A systematic review and meta-analysis. Developmental Medicine & Child Neurology, 55(6), 509–519. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7082248/
• Packer, R. J. (2020). Management of spasticity in children with cerebral palsy. American Family Physician, 101(4), 213–220. https://www.aafp.org/pubs/afp/issues/2020/0215/p213.html
• Rao, S., & Cruz, T. (2023). Robotic exoskeletons for gait rehabilitation in cerebral palsy: Current evidence and future directions. Translational Pediatrics, 12(1), 1–10. https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2324242623000311

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Not everything ends with finality. Some things don’t shatter or break apart; they simply begin to fade. The volume lowers. The conversation slows. The words that were once spoken are now silent, and the certainty that once existed is slowly slipping into the unfamiliar, as time quietly erases what was once believed to be permanent.

Over time, as the words fade and the pauses grow longer, what once held meaning begins to feel hollow. The shape remains, but the meaning no longer fits. It softens over time, until it barely holds together. There is no clear moment to point to, no obvious ending to mark when it all began to change. Some connections slip away exactly like this. There was no fight, no farewell — only silence in the end.

This poem exists in the silence that follows what was never fully said. It lingers in the ache of something that once lived deeply between two people, but now only echoes.

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Threaded Through Bone

By: Kerry Ann Wiley

Not all bonds are braided.
Some are threaded through bone —
too deep to untangle,
too quiet to break.

It split the sky.
One vow,
written in the wind.
Broken by standing still.

What was shared,
what was given,
was already gone.

Some call it love
Others call it faith
because it doesn’t answer.

There were mirrors,
but all showed different truths.

One steady,
one burning.
Full of silence.

Only the echo remains — the sound of grief
when it no longer remembers its name.

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The Quiet Fade

This is not a poem about dramatic endings or obvious heartbreak. It doesn’t move in a clear or expected way. There is no betrayal, no sudden departure, no sharp realization; only the slow fading of what once felt certain. Instead, it looks at the quiet erosion of a bond that was never clearly defined but deeply felt.

The opening lines root the connection in the body. It is neither chosen nor named. It simply exists—unquestioned, steady, silent, and profound. It runs through to the bone. This kind of connection isn’t easily named, but its presence is undeniable. When it begins to shift, the pain that follows is just as real — even if it’s hard to explain.

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Stillness That Unravels

One of the most telling lines in the poem is:

“Broken by standing still.”

Here, the fracture doesn’t come from conflict, but from inaction. Nothing is said. Nothing is done. The absence of effort becomes its own kind of breaking. Without movement, the bond can’t hold. Over time, stillness becomes silence — and silence becomes distance.

The poem suggests that some endings don’t come from a decision, but from neglect. When nothing is offered, nothing can be sustained. What once felt sacred fades quietly, simply because it’s been left untouched for too long.

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Misaligned Reflections

Midway through the poem, the tone shifts again:

“There were mirrors,
but all showed different truths.”

This is where disconnection deepens into distortion. Two people can be in the same space and still see completely different things. One may believe in the stability of the bond. The other may feel it slipping away. Yet neither of them finds the words to say what they see.

The silence isn’t empty. It is filled with assumptions, with separate truths. By the time either realizes the difference, the bond has already begun to dissolve.

The poem doesn’t assign blame. Instead, it traces the sadness that comes when two lives, once closely connected, begin to move in different directions. It captures the slow fading of shared understanding—not through conflict, but through gradual change.

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Grief Without a Name

The poem closes with lines that speak to a particular kind of grief — one that outlasts its cause:

“Only the echo remains — the sound of grief
when it no longer remembers its name.”

This grief isn’t tied to a specific memory or a dramatic moment. It lingers in the body like background noise. It doesn’t have a clear shape, and most of the time, it arrives without warning.

It doesn’t disappear. It stirs beneath the silence, long after the rest has vanished. It’s not about refusing to let go—it’s about what doesn’t ask to be held.

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Naming What Was Never Spoken

The poem ends, leaving the silence intact. It doesn’t try to unravel the past—only to acknowledge it. It recognizes a bond that mattered, even if it was never clearly defined.

When that kind of bond fades, it leaves no clarity; only grief without reason and absence without shape. What the poem offers is simple: a space for the unspeakable, a shape for the words that were never shared. When an ending never fully comes, absence becomes the only truth that remains.

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