The room fills with voices—
Mum’s quick rivers of thought,
Sister’s stories turning the air
toward her days and battles.
I sit among them
with words that move more slowly,
like leaves drifting
down a calmer stream.
Sometimes they pass me by—
the moment to speak,
the small opening
that closes again.
But I remember
how my dad used to sit beside me,
quiet as I was,
a soft smile
that said without saying:
There’s no rush.
Your thoughts belong here.
And even now,
while the room carries on
in its louder ways,
I feel that quiet place beside me
where someone
is still listening.
Written with the help of ChatGPT (‘Arnie’), based on my reflections.