The Collection
The Quiet Things
The small, unexpected moments no one warns you about. Crowdsourced. Anonymous. Just the moments themselves, floating like embers.
The moment I reached for my phone to call her before remembering.
Seeing his handwriting on an old birthday card.
The first Father's Day I didn't buy a card.
When I laughed at something and turned to tell her.
Finding a grocery list in his handwriting. Just bread, milk, apples.
The smell of a certain soap.
Her favorite song coming on the radio while I was driving. I had to pull over.
Realizing I don't remember the sound of his voice anymore.
The way strangers sometimes look like her from behind.
The first time I cooked her recipe and it tasted right.
When my child did something funny and I thought — she would have loved this.
Opening a drawer and finding his reading glasses.
The day I stopped instinctively saving articles to send him.
A November that smelled exactly like the year she died.
Getting good news and not knowing who to call.
When I realized I was about to be older than she was in my earliest memory of her.
His coffee mug still in the cabinet. I can't move it.
Watching my children grow up without knowing their grandparent.
The anniversary of her death landing on a Tuesday. Just a Tuesday.
When I caught myself laughing, and then felt guilty for laughing.
The last voicemail I never deleted.
When I made a decision I know she would have argued with. And I missed the argument.
Add yours
What was your quiet thing?
No username. No attribution. Just the moment.