Asides

Braced

(a short story)
by Kerry Ann Wiley


I sat at the rented table. It was scratched and scarred like my legs. I pressed my fingers into one of the grooves and didn’t pull away.

Julian came down, voice soft, questioning. “Come to bed.”

I didn’t move.

“Hey,” he said again, “come to bed.”

I looked at him. “Jul…?”

“What?”

The tension hung between us. I wanted to tell him.

“I—I hurt.”

That wasn’t a lie, exactly.

He waited.

I rose, and my balance slipped. The table caught me in time.

He took a step toward me, but I waved him off.

We hadn’t been home in a while. Most weekends vanished into temporary places—motels with someone else’s linens, short-term rentals with rules taped to the fridge, coffee shops that closed too early. Cups went cold between us. The closest thing to lasting was Julian’s car. Motion was easier.

The cabin was the latest try.

The fire burned low. He read. I didn’t ask what. I sat with my back to the wall and watched everything resist change—even the fire. He added a log. It hissed and smoked, then caught.

The first night in the cabin I crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t turn but his breath hitched, barely. Just enough to know he registered it.

Later his hand moved to the back of my knee, just above the scar. The bad leg. His touch was uncertain, like he was listening for something I wasn’t saying. My leg seized and he felt it, waited, then his fingers fell into a pattern again. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

The fire had dropped to embers. Wind scraped at the windows. I shifted.

Neither of us said anything. It felt safer that way.

The next morning, we left without a plan. The walk stretched longer than we intended, direction mattering less than distance. The cold felt cleaner than the silence had. The path led, unintentionally, to a beach. Gray water stilled beneath a low, heavy sky. The sand sank too easily beneath our feet. Julian walked ahead—close enough to hear, not enough to speak.

I carried the poles. Carbon, newer than they looked. I didn’t need them for the distance. Neither of us were talking much by then. I knelt and set the poles behind me. The tide hadn’t turned yet. Rain held off. The beach felt in-between. I stepped back, scanned for footing, and started to rise. That’s when it happened.

The left pole had slipped behind a dip. I reached too fast. My hip twisted. The pole buckled. I went down hard. Pain broke clean through me. My knee gave out with a snap. Shoulder hit next. My breath left before I could brace.

Julian called out—sharp, panicked—then sprinted. He dropped to the sand beside me, hands reaching, gentle now, but far too late.

“I need to look,” he said.

I nodded.

“I need to touch you.”

Another nod. Shallow.

His hands moved over the joint, slow, skilled. Familiar. Like someone who knew my leg before it betrayed me. His fingers found the swelling. Lateral laxity.

“It’s an ACL tear,” he said finally. “Could be partial, but with this instability—more likely full.”

By the time he got me up, the rain had started. The walk to the car was longer than I remembered. He helped me in the back, then climbed in beside me.

I shook. He gripped me, sensing the cold—but it was more than that. He reached for the emergency blanket tucked in the corner and draped it over me. It smelled like the back of his trunk.

After he treated the tear, he moved to hold me. He couldn’t drive. Not yet. The rain was too heavy. He knew I needed to get medical treatment. His mind raced. He did a mental rewind and the signs lined up like pins—each one knocking the next.

Missed a curb.
Paused on stairs.
Braced near walls.
Offloaded weight.
Hesitated before rising.
Dropped a glass I didn’t mean to.

Somewhere in the list, he stopped being the EMT. He saw me—Kerry—fighting my body. I hated tears. I was trying hard to keep together.

He had already done what he could. He stabilized the joint with a compression wrap from the kit under the seat. He elevated my leg across the backseat, using a folded jacket beneath the knee. On either side, he braced it with two foam wedges cut from an old support pad.

He checked for distal pulse, monitored for shock, and kept the pressure firm but not too tight. It was rudimentary, temporary, but it would hold long enough. He moved without disturbing the leg, somehow adjusting to hold me.

When his arms came around me again, something gave. Not in him—in me. I stopped holding everything in place. Let it tilt. He didn’t say anything. Just held me while the ache threaded its way through. My breath caught once, then settled. The tears came—hot, deliberate, and silent.

“Okay,” he said—voice low, steady. “Enough. Talk to me.”

His tone didn’t rise.

“It’s not just the tear.”

Julian waited.

“Peripheral neuropathy. That was the diagnosis. A side effect of years spent moving wrong—joints pushed too far, muscles too tight, nerves trapped in the middle.”

It explained the heat crawling down my shin, the sudden jolt in my calf when I turned too fast. The numb spots I couldn’t feel anymore. The burning that came without warning.

“It’s been building,” I said. “It came on slow, sharp in places, easy to ignore until it wasn’t.”

“I’ve seen the signs.”

I didn’t respond.

He didn’t pull away. Just let the silence settle. Then his arm came around me again—unhurried, certain. He held me like someone who wasn’t afraid to know the whole thing. Not just the brace, or the scans. But this—what it did beneath the surface.

“You were compensating.”

“I didn’t see it,” he said, quietly. Then, uncharacteristically too sharp, “How could I not see it?”

He caught himself, looked away.

“I didn’t want to be looked at like that,” I said.

There was no reply for that.

When it felt safe, he drove.

The clinic lights were too bright. Everything after that moved quickly: intake, exam gown, questions I didn’t have words for. He was still with me, too still. Like he was afraid to move. And that’s when I felt it: the past circling back.

I sat on the edge of the table in a paper gown. Skin cold. Legs drawn close. Julian leaned against the counter. Silent. His mind already building the list.

Vein testing.
Pinched nerve.
Gait instability.
Cold feet.
Hand tremor.
Sensory ataxia. Confirmed.

He hadn’t known. I hadn’t let him.

The door clicked shut behind the doctor.

“You didn’t tell me about the tests,” he said.

“When?”

“Last month.”

He looked down. Tired, angry, maybe scared.

Julian moved toward me and pulled the rolling stool beneath him. He sat close—near but not touching.

“They’ll want to immobilize for now,” he said. “No stairs. Assisted mobility. Brace. You know this.”

I nodded.

“The long term—”

“Don’t.”

He paused.

“I tried to work through it,” I said. “Until I couldn’t.”

He didn’t respond. Just sat there.

“Jul.”

He reached for my hand and held it.

It took three weeks for the swelling to ease. The bruises shifted slowly, dark purple giving way to a dull yellow. They blurred, lost their shape, but never fully disappeared. Even as the surface healed, something beneath it stayed tender.

The cabin came three weeks after discharge. The bruises had yellowed. Memory hadn’t. The cabin smelled like smoke and fabric and silence. I moved slowly. The brace pulled with every step. He opened the door and stepped aside.

I sat on the couch—awkward, stiff, tired. He adjusted the pillow behind me. When he turned to leave, I caught his wrist. He paused. He sat beside me—close this time. Not careful. Not guarded.

The fire held.

Julian sat with me for a while, then rose without a word. He crossed the room, returned with my winter crutches—cleaned, adjusted, straps re-tied.

“These will hold better than the poles,” he said.

I looked at him. “Where are we going?”

“Rochester. Neuromuscular clinic. They’re running diagnostics we couldn’t get scheduled locally.”

“You planned that?”

He nodded once. Focused on the grips. I watched him—how thorough he was. How much he had already done before asking me.

“This place always feels like a pause button,” I said.

Julian looked up. “Then let’s stop pausing.”

He helped me up. The crutches held. I moved—one step, then another.

We didn’t pack that night.

He already had.

In the morning, we would go.

What the Fire Held

The cabin was his idea. A weekend away. No plans, no signal—just space.

He offered it like a remedy, something that might keep the pieces from slipping further apart. I said yes because saying no would have meant acknowledging the unraveling.

He drove. I watched the trees change from copper and rust to bare limbs as the road narrowed around us. We hadn’t fought, not exactly. Still, something in the way we moved had changed—cautious and distant. As if we were circling something fragile or already broken.

The flat tire hit just past the turnoff. A dull thud. Then that dragging sound, rubber unraveling itself. He braked hard. Gravel scattered. He got out. I stayed in the car.

I heard him haul the jack and spare from the trunk. The jack hit the pavement with more force than necessary. Three bolts came loose. The fourth didn’t. He leaned his weight into it. Then a sharp slam—his hand hitting metal—and a low curse I heard through the closed window.

He shook out his fingers like it wasn’t the worst pain of the week. It hurt. We both knew that. But that wasn’t the point. We drove the rest of the way in silence.

The cabin was smaller than I’d pictured: one room, one stove, and a front door that stuck. We didn’t unpack our things; we simply walked down to the lake. Near the trees, a fire pit sat half-collapsed, its stones blackened and sunken. Someone had once built it with care, but it didn’t look like it would last another winter.

He started rebuilding it. Brushed ash away with his jacket sleeve. Shifted the stones like it mattered. I stood off to the side, hands buried in my sleeves, and watched him stack the wood too tightly. He struck a match. It died. Struck another. I offered my lighter. He didn’t take it. It wasn’t about the fire.

At last, the fire caught. Slowly, its flames rose, casting a stubborn warmth over us. Across from me, he sat with outstretched hands—a silent plea for comfort. His eyes remained fixed on the restless, flickering glow. In that heavy silence, each unspoken moment deepened the distance between us.

That night, he lay facing the wall, while I stared up at the exposed, creaking beams. The cabin reeked of smoke— just that raw, stale odor. Before dawn, I stumbled from bed, lit the stove, and pulled yesterday’s sweatshirt over my head.

I rifled through my purse and found a pen and a crumpled scrap of paper—a small invitation to express unspoken words. I sat by the window, smoothed the paper, and began writing, letting my thoughts flow. Later, he emerged, half-asleep with disheveled hair. He made coffee, set down two mugs, and quietly stood behind me.

“Is that yours?” he asked, nodding at the creased page.

I nodded. He didn’t push further. The old coffee maker hummed steadily. He handed me a mug that was too hot to hold—I took it anyway. Then he leaned over to read my words. When his fingers brushed my shoulder, I caught myself leaning in slightly, he did too.

I hadn’t planned on writing a poem, but that’s exactly what it became.

What the Fire Held
By Kerry Ann Wiley

The wind moved—
not against, but through—
what warmth tried to hold.
A body trembled,
but not from cold alone.
Then—closeness,
its weight both real and imagined.
The fire burned yellow,
and shades of yellow, and red—
colors that speak,
but do not stay.
Not all warmth lasts.
Some slips—ember by ember—
until only the outline remains.

I re-read the opening lines—

The wind moved,
not against, but through
what warmth tried to hold.

I started here because that’s what it felt like. That night, that silence. Like trying to hold something that was already slipping.

A body trembled,
but not from cold alone.

I wrote that line in my mind while pulling the blanket closer—not for the cold, but for the chill that lingers when someone is beside you yet never reaches out.

Then—closeness,
its weight both real and imagined.

I took my time with these lines, letting each word settle. The space between us was still there—a mix of closeness and absence. Sometimes, being near someone is just a reminder of what is gone.

The fire burned yellow,
and shades of yellow, and red—
colors that speak,
but do not stay.

I kept thinking about the soft reflections on his face—fleeting glints of flame that came and went. For a moment, they said something real. Sometimes, silence has its own way of speaking.

Not all warmth lasts.
Some slips, ember by ember,
until only the outline remains.

He reread that line, eyes pausing as if tracing a faded memory. His fingers returned to my shoulder, and in that touch, I felt a warmth I believed was lost. I hadn’t intended a metaphor, yet it spoke volumes.

That night, we watched the embers glow—neither facing each other nor apart. His face was briefly lit before the darkness reclaimed it, a reminder that some moments leave their mark.

By Sunday, the fire was out, but the stones held their shape. We moved around each other without urgency, folding blankets, brushing ash from our sleeves, zipping up what we had left undone.

The poem had caught like kindling, sudden and unplanned. A small burn that cleared space. I folded it once, then again, and slipped it into the glove compartment. Not to save it. Just to keep it from being lost.

Some fires rage. Some flicker. Some settle into embers. As we drove home, I watched the trees again, the color gone. His hand stayed near the gearshift, close to mine but not quite there. The cabin was his idea—a weekend away, space. We took it.

We built a fire. We didn’t say the things that might’ve split us open. Now, with the poem folded between us and the last of the warmth fading from our sleeves, I kept thinking about that line—some slips, ember by ember. Were we still burning, or just what the fire left behind?

When the System Shifts: What Medicaid Makes Possible

Across the United States, Medicaid helps millions of people access important healthcare services that might otherwise be out of reach. For both children and adults, it provides support for things like speech therapy, mobility equipment, and in-home nursing care. These services make it possible for individuals to receive the care they need to live more independently and with a better quality of life.

Now, proposed federal budget cuts totaling $880 billion dollars may impact this program. While the discussion often focuses on savings and statistics, the potential effects include reduced access, less stability, and changes in support that may influence independence. For those who depend on Medicaid, it’s more than just a budget line—it’s the difference between inclusion and isolation.

Medicaid is more than just a health insurance program. It funds a range of essential services, including speech therapy for children, mobility aids and adaptive technology to help individuals engage with their communities, and nursing care that supports medically fragile children in attending school or remaining safely at home.

For many families, Medicaid covers what private insurance doesn’t. It starts at birth and continues through childhood, adolescence, and adulthood, adjusting as needs change. It covers personal care assistants who help with bathing, dressing, and eating. It funds job coaching, supported employment, and day programs. It makes it possible for people to stay in their homes and remain part of their communities.

If thes proposed budget reductions take hold, the effects won’t show up in abstractions. They will appear in longer waitlists, new hurdles to enrollment and renewal, and deeper financial strain on families already stretched thin.

States may be forced to narrow eligibility or cut back benefits, with real and immediate consequences. For some, it could mean fewer therapy sessions. For others, the loss of a trusted caregiver, the closure of a vital program, or even a return to restrictive settings once left behind.

The consequences will also extend beyond individual enrollees. Hospitals and providers depend on Medicaid reimbursements to keep pediatric units open. These funds also support the staffing of behavioral health services and the operation of specialty clinics. When that support weakens, access to care narrows—not only for those who rely on Medicaid, but for entire communities.

In rural areas, where provider networks already run thin, the loss could be sharper still. Even families with private insurance may feel the strain if the broader care infrastructure begins to erode.

Proposals to implement work requirements or restrict enrollment are often presented as efforts to reduce fraud. However, such policies rarely reflect the day-to-day realities faced by individuals living with disabilities. Most people on Medicaid are already working, caregiving, or unable to meet conventional work expectations due to medical need. Reforms built on misunderstanding can deepen inequity rather than improve efficiency.

Advocates and families are mobilizing. Trainings are helping individuals share their stories, while outreach to lawmakers continues to grow. In response to potential federal cuts, some are urging states to consider contingency planning. Policy groups are raising difficult but necessary questions: What systems will remain if federal funding is reduced? How can states safeguard essential supports? Ideas on the table include revisiting tax structures, closing loopholes, and identifying stable, long-term revenue sources to preserve critical services.

While not without its limitations, Medicaid remains a vital source of support. It makes space for individuals whose needs don’t fit neatly within conventional coverage plans or standard budget categories. Undermining that support without a clear plan to strengthen what remains is not meaningful reform.

It introduces risk, one that falls not on systems, but on the individuals who rely on them. When that support begins to slip, the impact isn’t theoretical. It’s personal. It shows up in the ways people live, and in what they stand to lose.

When Clarity Fades: What the Loss of ADA Guidance Really Means

The U.S. Department of Justice (DOJ) recently withdrew several guidance documents related to the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). Some of these resources had been in place for decades, serving as essential tools for individuals and organizations to interpret and apply the law in practical, everyday contexts.​

These documents provided clarity on how to ensure accessibility in a wide range of settings—small businesses, retail environments, healthcare facilities, and other public venues. Although the ADA remains intact, the withdrawal of this guidance casts uncertainty on how accessibility will be defined, communicated, and ensured moving forward.

Signed into law in 1990, the ADA is a civil rights statute that prohibits discrimination based on disability. It guarantees access to employment, public services, transportation, telecommunications, and spaces open to the public. The ADA has always been more than a legal requirement for ramps and curb cuts. The ADA asserts that disability should never be a barrier to doing what many take for granted—working, shopping, going to a movie, visiting a doctor.​

Over time, the law has evolved through regulations, enforcement actions, and technical guidance. These tools translated dense legal language into usable information, helping ensure that accessibility standards kept pace with new technologies and shifting societal expectations.​

For example, closed captions were originally developed to support individuals who are deaf or hard of hearing. Over time, they have come to benefit a much broader group—people with learning differences, such as dyslexia or auditory processing disorders, and anyone trying to follow spoken content in noisy environments or quiet public spaces. This kind of inclusive design—spurred by the principles of the ADA—demonstrates how accessibility can enhance usability for everyone.​

The ADA extends beyond physical spaces. It offers protections in communication, policy, and fair access to services like healthcare, education, and employment. The guidance documents that were recently withdrawn helped bring those broader protections to life in practical ways. Although they didn’t establish new legal duties, they provided helpful direction on meeting existing ones.

Business owners, educators, healthcare professionals, and local governments relied on these documents to navigate decisions—accommodating service animals, integrating support persons in medical settings, or adjusting procedures to avoid discriminatory outcomes. Without them, applying the law becomes more guesswork than guidance.​

The DOJ has stated that the rollback is part of a broader effort to eliminate outdated or redundant materials, and it has promised to promote awareness of incentives. While these may be helpful in some cases, the removal of detailed, situation-specific guidance shifts a greater interpretive burden onto individuals and organizations—especially those trying in good faith to comply with the law but unsure where to start.​

For people with disabilities, that burden is not theoretical. It can mean having to re-explain the right to bring a communication aide into a hospital room. It might involve being denied entry to a business because staff are unclear about service animal policies. Or it may look like delays in receiving needed accommodations at work. These challenges, already too common, risk becoming even more deeply rooted without clear and reliable guidance to turn to.

The issue isn’t just legal. It’s practical. During the COVID-19 pandemic, for example, the DOJ issued temporary guidance to help institutions make decisions in real time—balancing safety protocols with legal protections. Whether the question involved allowing a support person in a hospital or accommodating medical exemptions from mask requirements, those documents offered a timely framework for acting responsibly and lawfully.​

That kind of clarity is hard to replace. Without it, organizations may hesitate, second-guess, or choose inaction, leading to inconsistency, confusion, and potential harm. Rescinding guidance doesn’t change the law, but it can make the law more difficult to understand, navigate, and apply. This isn’t just a procedural shift—it can have real effects on everyday life.

Whether designing a space, drafting a policy, or making an on-the-spot decision, clarity matters. So does consistency and knowing how to do the right thing—without guesswork or delay.​ The ADA remains a powerful promise: that disability should never be a barrier to participation. That promise still stands. Yet how it’s supported, communicated, and carried out matters just as much as the words written into law.​

Access becomes real through everyday choices—in what is built, how decisions are made, and how people are heard. And that starts with treating inclusion not as a checkbox—but as a guiding principle.

Beyond the Headlines: What the Executive Order on Education Might Mean for Students with Disabilities

On March 20, a significant development in education policy unfolded—one that didn’t make every front page but may carry lasting consequences.

President Trump signed an executive order directing the Secretary of Education to begin the process of closing the U.S. Department of Education “to the maximum extent appropriate and permitted by law.”

This came shortly after an earlier announcement that nearly half of the Department’s staff would be laid off. While these events may seem administrative, together they suggest a deeper reconsideration of the federal government’s role in public education.

Closing the Department of Education outright would require an act of Congress. However, executive directives like this one often signal where priorities are shifting.

For families of students with disabilities in New York and other states, where protections have long been closely aligned with federal policy—this shift raises real questions.

A Proposed Move for Special Education Oversight

Since the executive order was issued, both President Trump and Education Secretary Linda McMahon have publicly suggested that the administration of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) could be transferred to the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS). While this idea has been floated before in policy circles, it has rarely been positioned with such immediacy.

Legal scholars have already raised concerns. Moving IDEA would likely require congressional action, and questions remain about whether HHS—an agency not traditionally tied to public education—is equipped to oversee such a complex and education-specific law.

IDEA is not just a set of federal regulations. It is the backbone of special education across the country, ensuring access, services, procedural protections, and the right to a free appropriate public education in the least restrictive environment.

How This Could Affect Students in New York and Other States

At present, no federal laws have been repealed.

The executive order does not eliminate special education funding. It does not rewrite IDEA. Yet the process it initiates could alter how special education is managed, interpreted, and prioritized—particularly if IDEA is separated from the Department that houses broader educational policy.

New York has strong state laws mirroring the protections of IDEA. Many other states do as well. These local policies provide a layer of stability. However, federal oversight plays a critical role in funding, accountability, and enforcement. Without a clearly defined and education-focused federal partner, states may find themselves operating in silos, with fewer resources and less guidance.

Uncertainty also complicates long-term planning for schools and families. IEP teams, district leaders, and parents rely on consistency. When that consistency erodes—whether legally or operationally—services can falter, and children may be the ones who experience the impact most directly.

Why the Department of Education Still Matters

PACER Center, a longstanding advocate for students with disabilities, has voiced firm opposition to the potential closure of the Department of Education or the reassignment of IDEA. Their concerns echo those of many families and educators.

The Department has historically played a vital role in protecting civil rights, particularly through its Office for Civil Rights. That office investigates discrimination complaints, monitors compliance with disability law, and helps ensure students with disabilities receive equitable treatment in public schools.

Significant staff reductions could slow or weaken those enforcement efforts. Fewer staff may mean fewer investigations. Reduced oversight may result in more inconsistencies from district to district, state to state.

Moving IDEA to HHS could further isolate special education from the broader dialogue about public education. When services for students with disabilities are treated as peripheral or managed by a non-education agency, there is a risk that these students become less visible. Their needs may be addressed separately rather than integrated into core educational priorities.

What You Can Do, Even If You’re Not a Policy Expert

This moment may feel abstract or far away from your child’s classroom. However, changes at the federal level often work quietly, slowly, and then suddenly. By the time consequences become visible, they can be harder to reverse.

Families and community members have more power than they often realize. You don’t need to understand every detail to raise your voice.

Here are a few steps to consider:

  • Reach out to your U.S. Senators and Representatives. Let them know that the Department of Education matters to you. Express your support for keeping IDEA housed where it can be integrated with broader education policy.
  • Talk to others in your community. Whether you’re a parent, teacher, or advocate, conversations raise awareness. The more people who understand what’s at stake, the stronger the collective voice becomes.
  • Stay informed. Track updates from trusted sources such as PACER or your state’s Department of Education. In times of change, informed advocacy is one of the most protective tools we have.

Education policy may feel distant, but the classroom is local. The IEP meeting is local. The future is local.

This moment asks us not just to pay attention—but to stay involved. For students with disabilities in New York and across the country, what happens next could shape not just how they are educated, but how they are seen.

Between Ash and Breath

A sky undecided hangs overhead suspended in that in-between hue that refuses to settle on blue or gray. The day unfolds with a weight that clings to skin and seeps beneath layers while holding itself close; it is too slight to be named yet impossible to ignore. It moves with me.

Along familiar streets, even the wind seems hesitant. There is just the slow groan of metal beneath my shoes, echoing like a city’s reluctant yawn—a subtle murmur of resistance before it stirs awake.

A strip of denim curls around a fence post, sun-bleached, wind-worried and nearly brittle. At first it appears discarded but the longer I look it becomes something else: a fragment, a remnant and a placeholder for someone who once paused there or passed through without leaving much behind.

It’s easy to imagine a moment caught in that very spot—words exchanged, misunderstood, or never spoken at all. Something flickers at the edge of thought—a memory maybe—but it doesn’t land. It backs away before it takes shape. What’s left is a silence that doesn’t empty the space, but fills it. That silence is where the poem Still Breathing begins.

Still Breathing

by Kerry Ann Wiley

The curb sweats tar in the early gray.
Metal hums beneath the soles—not music, not even rhythm—just the low murmur of something too exhausted to speak.

A strip of denim twists around chain link,
wind-worried and sun-cured to silence.
Whether abandoned or never claimed,
it remains—creased like a jaw clenched mid-answer.

It is not mourning—perhaps merely the damp salt feathering the air—
yet every time the wind shifts left,
bodies flinch right.

Fingernails once bitten
into the shape of a comma,
pausing only when laughter cracked
wide enough to swallow silence whole.

Nothing yields now.
Not the screen door bowed by heat,
nor the floorboards that shift as if listening,
nor the blinds that tremble when nothing moves,
nor the glass pane smudged with a gesture left unfinished,
nor the hands that brushed past skin without finding anchor.

Evenings smear across enamel like ink,
each shadow dragging the scent of something
half-burned and still breathing.
Still breathing.

The poem doesn’t begin with action—it begins with temperature. With fatigue. The curb sweating tar and the metal humming beneath tired feet feels like a place I’ve walked through before.

Not just physically, but emotionally—those early gray hours when the world is thick with memory and you’re not sure if the weight you feel belongs to now or something that was never resolved.

There’s no narrative here in the conventional sense. Instead, the poem offers fragments—each one purposeful, each one quiet enough to be missed if you’re not already listening.

The denim twisted in the fence becomes a stand-in for what lingers long after the moment has passed. Whether left behind or never claimed, it holds shape the way silence sometimes does: creased and clenched, waiting for someone to notice.

Then the wind shifts left and bodies flinch right.

It’s the kind of detail that reaches beyond the mind and lands in the body. No story is offered, yet one is felt. The flinch needs no explanation—it belongs to a grief that lingers in silence. It belongs to the salt in the air, the pause before a breath, and the instinct that remains long after memory fades.

When the poem turns inward, it finds hesitation pressed into skin. Fingernails bitten into the shape of a comma speak of what was held back, chewed on and worried into silence. That image, a pause etched into flesh, is a quiet act of survival. Then laughter breaks through; it isn’t the kind that heals but the kind that splits something open just long enough for stillness to return.

What follows isn’t just silence, but space. Rooms appear—familiar, as if waiting. A house where nothing quite lines up, where every object holds its own small weight. The blinds tremble without wind. The floor shifts not from footsteps but from memory. The screen door warps under heat. The window bears a smudge from a gesture that never quite connected. Even the hands, when they brushed against skin, passed through without landing.

The house doesn’t forget. It absorbs.

Then evening arrives, subtle and insistent, like ink quietly darkening an untouched page. Shadows merge with a bitter trace of char, while the air clings to a residue—not of flame, but of something that stubbornly persists.

The final line doesn’t rise. It remains.

Still breathing.

Not for a reason. Not in protest. Just because. Because not everything ends when it’s supposed to. Some things—some people—keep going because they don’t know what else to do.

They persist between ash and breath, just beyond what can be named.

And in that residue—faint as smoke, weightless as absence—something endures. Not a flame, not a pulse, but the trace of both. A presence felt only in the pause, the tremble, the way a room forgets to echo once the sound is gone.

When Blue Paused for Purple


The evening descends. The air thickens with unspoken truths. The air carries the weight of what’s unfinished, drifting like memories half-remembered yet elusive. Tonight, the familiar script slips away as daylight fades, giving way to something softer, less defined.

Twilight emerges as a brief pause between the known and the unknown. A tender hour when colors deepen and shadows stretch. It becomes a time of stillness before something new takes shape.

Deep violet seeps into the clouds like ink spreading across fragile paper, blurring the edges. Certainty slips away; in its place, possibility stirs—the first lines of a story not yet told.

When Blue Paused for Purple (the poem)

The sky was meant to be blue—
as constant as the first stir of dawn.
Yet on some evenings, that dependable hue
melts away into something untamed.

A richer shade emerges:
deep purple clinging to memory and desire,
not fading but lingering like a soft ache,
hovering between what was and what might be.

It is a hue that escapes definition,
declining confinement —
a trick of light softening rigid rules,
cradling questions in the pause before formation.

Certainty flickers in the quiet,
nurturing possibilities yet to bloom,
as the purple sky inquires, insistently:

  Is weight heavy only because it’s never been set down?
  What might hands grasp if fear were as light as yearning?
  Can standing beneath a sky that isn’t blue
  spark belief in something unnamed?

Reflections on Uncertainty

The opening image—a blue sky promising calm and routine—gives way to something far less predictable as night arrives. Its steady hue dissolves into violet, unsettling and beautiful.

When Blue Paused for Purple captures the feeling when clarity fades into emotional ambiguity. Imagine a sudden detour on a familiar drive that reveals something unexpected along the way. The sky’s change is more than a shift in color. It reflects a deeper transformation. Every subtle change hints at new discoveries.

The poem speaks directly to shifting moods and surprising moments in life. The comforting blue of day can vanish, leaving behind a mix of emotions that open fresh paths for growth and reflection. The poem’s question “Is weight heavy only because it’s never been set down?” asks readers to examine the burdens carried.

It suggests that heaviness often comes not from the struggle itself but from holding on too tightly. The invitation is clear: let go of fears, doubts, or memories that no longer serve a purpose. In doing so, a sense of freedom and new beginnings emerges.

Standing under a sky that forgets its usual blue challenges the need for simple labels. There is strength in lingering over questions instead of rushing for answers. Think of it as stepping off your usual path—a brief pause where surprising insights emerge from trying something new.

The purple sky overhead gently nudges you to stop and appreciate the beauty in the unexpected.

A Closer Look: Living with the In-Betweens

The poem begins with the comforting blue of a clear sky, a symbol of routine and stability. Yet as night approaches, that reliable blue softens into an enigmatic violet. Feelings also change gradually, mixing what is known with the possibility of something new. In moments of uncertainty, creativity and strength can emerge.

The poem asks, “Is weight heavy only because it’s never been set down?” This suggests that holding on to burdens can make them feel heavier. By letting go of these weights, the way for new opportunities might be cleared.

Under a sky that defies its expected blue, the urge to label life with simple definitions is challenged. When life defies simple definitions, the impulse to label experiences loses its hold.

Rather than following a single, predictable path, life offers a varied mix of moments and emotions. Embracing uncertainty can reveal a subtle, unexpected beauty.

In the end, the sky’s refusal to remain blue invites the release of long-held certainties. In that pause, as blue shifts to purple, burdens lift and new possibilities emerge. The poem’s final question—”Can standing beneath a sky that isn’t blue spark belief in something unnamed?”—urges reflection on the power of change and the unknown.

Where Absence Lingers

The morning felt wrong. The door, always latched before sleep, resisted as it opened, as though something unseen had passed through first. One presence remained, yet the chair by the window had moved—angled slightly, as if someone had left in a hurry.

Nothing changed in the ways that should have mattered. A book lay where it had been left, pages curled from restless fingers. The cardigan lay draped over the chair, untouched. Its folds remained undisturbed, as if still molded to absent shoulders.

The space wasn’t empty—something lingered. The mirror showed its usual reflection until, for a moment, a flicker: a shift, a shape, a presence not meant to be seen. And then it was gone. Could it have been just a trick of exhaustion?

The house held a quiet that felt frayed at the edges, as if echoes of past sounds still clung to the air, unwilling to fade entirely. The clock ticked: steady, constant. Yet nothing had moved. Morning should have come, but time held its breath.

At the window, a familiar mug rested on the sill, the last sip untouched. The porch light, left burning overnight, cast a glow onto the steps. A muted sound disrupted the quiet—hesitant, incomplete.

It wasn’t really a voice at all, just a gentle echo that lingered, leaving a trace of absence where someone should have been.

The Echo of Absence

by Kerry Ann Wiley

The door was left unlocked that night,
or so it seemed by morning’s light.
No footprints marked the dust-stilled floor,
yet something stirred behind the door.

A chair was drawn, though none had sat.
A curtain stirred without a draft.
A mirror caught what wasn’t there,
a movement gone, a hollow stare.

The clock still ticked, though hands stood still.
A breathless hush, a nameless chill.
The porch light burned in vacant glow,
a beacon meant for those below.

A whisper rose, a fractured tune,
a hum beneath the thinning moon.
Yet when the room was turned to face,
only absence filled the space.

What Remains

Some absences leave lasting echoes—a door that closes behind someone who will never return, a chair left askew, a cardigan still marked by a vanished embrace.

In the quiet aftermath, familiar details speak of a presence once cherished: the mug at the window, the steady glow of the porch light, even the half-heard murmur of a voice.

Absence lingers in half‐heard sounds and in the disorder of misplaced objects. It fills a once familiar space with palpable emptiness. In these quiet shifts, the mark of someone who has left remains—a simple reminder that someone was here.

And now, they are gone.

The Season of Almost

The air carries a quiet hesitation. It is neither warm nor cold, holding onto the last traces of winter while hinting at something new. A jacket feels unnecessary, yet the moment bare skin meets the wind, doubt creeps in.

The ground remains damp, holding onto the memory of last week’s rain. The trees stand bare with their branches reaching toward the sky. Their stillness is not hesitation but patience. They do not resist the cold or grieve for their fallen leaves.

Instead, they stand firm, embracing the natural rhythm of the seasons and trusting in the promise of what is yet to come. The wind drifts through the branches whispering soft promises of renewal. Their strength is in waiting. Beneath the surface, change is already beginning.

Every year, there is a moment when winter loosens its hold but does not fully let go. Spring lingers at the edges, appearing in the sun’s extended path across the sky and the first hint of warmth in the air. Change comes not all at once but gradually, like the trees, like the seasons themselves.

This shift is captured in Almost Spring.

Almost Spring

By Kerry Ann Wiley

The trees don’t rush this year.
Their buds stay small, unsure,
like they remember last April—
the frost that came too late,
the blooms that never made it through.

The sky is softer, not bright,
just a quiet kind of blue.
Grass wakes up in slow motion,
more brown than green,
more memory than promise.

Still, something stirs beneath it all—
not bold, not certain,
but enough.
A hint of warmth in the air,
a whisper of color waiting to rise.

Some things return quietly,
not with fanfare, but with patience—
the slow reach of roots,
the hesitant unfolding of petals,
the way the light lingers just a little longer.

Change comes in small ways,
a branch bending toward the sun,
a petal loosening its hold,
the ground shifting just enough
to make room for something new.

Not every shift is immediate or obvious. Some changes unfold in the space between what was and what will be. Even when movement feels invisible, something is still happening beneath the surface.

Life keeps moving. The seasons evolve naturally. The trees may remember last April’s frost, yet they still reach for the light. The grass might stir slowly, but it will turn green. There is a comfort in knowing that time moves everything forward, even when the next step is uncertain.

Milestones mark progress, yet life is defined by its quiet moments. Like the roots that anchor a flower before it blooms, these subtle episodes lay the groundwork for steady growth.

Endings and beginnings seldom have clear boundaries. Patience is more than waiting. It is an intentional act of making space for the uncertain and trusting in what is still emerging. The trees understand this, and nature reflects the same truth. Even when movement goes unseen, growth persists.

In the space between goodbye and what’s next, nature softly reclaims its rhythm. A quiet shift carries its promise. Change beckons, inviting a new beginning.

What The Night Holds

Some moments refuse to fade; they settle heavy, pressing into the quiet. Daylight blurs into dusk, the world’s hum softens, and something unnamed stirs. The mind unthreads memories, tracing unfinished shapes—words left unsaid, choices untouched, moments without closure.

This is how the night works.

Maybe it unfolds in bed just before sleep, in a kitchen lit by a lone lamp, or in a parked car with fingers tapping the wheel as thoughts circle back. What was set aside returns. Memory lingers. It waits.

Some memories emerge as soft whispers, insistent and low. Others burst in raw, sharp fragments. And then there are those that ache—the almosts, the what ifs, the weight of what remains.

What The Night Holds

A Poem by Kerry A. Wiley

The past does not knock.
It is already within.

Laughter, half-formed, half-forgotten,
spills from an empty room.
A voice, sharp as shattered glass,
cuts through the hush.

No footsteps announce its arrival, no warning precedes its return,
a door left open, or one that never truly closed?

Echoes of laughter, once belonging to someone else,
linger like a ghostly caress.
A touch remains long after it has faded,
the shape of a goodbye never spoken.

No light, only the interplay of shadow and memory.
No sound, only the resonant echo of what was.

The weight of what was.
The phantom of what could have been.
The ache of what still endures.

Not emptiness, but fullness,
a silence that breathes, a question without an answer.

A door left ajar,
a presence that was never entirely absent.
Was it waiting, or did it arrive unbidden?

It does not leave.
It does not sleep.
It never forgets.

The dark does not speak,
it only holds its vigil.

The Shape of What Lingers

Memory arrives unannounced, slipping in when stillness allows. Not every recollection comes wrapped in warmth. Some return like splintered glass. They are fractured and sharp, felt more deeply than understood.

The laughter of another era and a voice out of sync with the present emerge. Each fragment serves as a reminder of something that should have faded, yet lingers. It is a soft ache, whispering of what once was.

Absence is never empty. Sometimes it bears the weight of unspoken words—a goodbye lingering in the gap between past and present. The past does not simply vanish. It shifts, settling into the spaces we leave behind, quietly raising questions about what was and what might have been.

When the Past Stays

Memory cycles through: a song, a name, a place. Each detail lingers, nudging the present with echoes of what was never truly left behind. Some moments retreat into silence; others insist on being noticed.

The body remembers what the mind tries to forget. Not all silence is empty. Some silences cradle the unsaid, holding the weight of feelings never fully expressed.

Sitting with the Silence

Not every thread of our story is meant to be neatly tied up. Some remain loose, raw, and unpredictable, like the night itself, where the past hovers at the edges, quietly restless and defiant.

Night as Keeper of Memory

In quiet corners where the mind wanders, memory stakes its claim. The night holds more than fleeting thoughts. It cradles echoes of laughter, murmurs of farewells unsaid, and every story left incomplete. Each recollection bears the weight of its unfinished truth.

Night does not erase our past; it preserves it in a silence that feels rich and profound. Whether a door is left ajar or never fully closed, our history remains a constant presence shadowing every quiet hour.

Darkness is not an empty void but a keeper of our memories. It is a place where unspoken words echo and lost possibilities linger. It doesn’t grant easy answers, only a place where stories wait.

In these raw, unscripted moments, our story unfolds. Laughter mingles with the echoes of memory, and every unspoken goodbye leaves us wondering about the promise of tomorrow.