little bird

On Saturday we gathered to celebrate and honour my father’s life. It’s been six months since he died. I moved through the hours with full hands and a full heart—preparing food, hugging strangers and relatives I hadn’t seen in years. I washed dishes, wiped counters, caught tears. I gave what I could: soft smiles, quiet presence, the steadiness of simply being there. When the celebration was over, I climbed into my car and felt it—that familiar tug. A whisper from my knowing vo

If grief were a landscape, it would be a rough and rugged terrain—one that shifts with the light, a scent, the time of day, the weight of a memory. Some days, it would be a dense fog rolling over a vacant field, where the horizon fades and every step forward feels uncertain. Other times, a shoreline after a storm, littered with scattered shells and lifeless sea creatures, the air heavy with salt and absence. Thanks for reading Little Bird Poet! Subscribe for free to receive n

I noticed something the other day.Not in a grand or celebratory way,not marked by anything you could point to. Just a noticing.And for some reason, it felt like something to share. I have posted eighty-five articles here on Substack since I began a little over a year ago. Eighty-five times I have sat down, or stood in the kitchen, or pulled over somewhere on a rainy day, or opened a notebook, and followed something small and insistent asking to be heard. Not everything was cl