#stchristopher
Today was flat
like the sky couldn’t decide
if it wanted to rain
or forgive.
I moved through it quietly —
half here,
half somewhere in the dreams
I can’t remember.
They’ve been visiting me lately,
those blank places.
Waking with the feeling
that something was said
but not kept.
We bought our son his St Christopher today.
Dull silver.
Shiny silver.
The Saint rising in 3D
like he’s stepping forward.
Mine is old silver —
worn soft by time,
once resting against a chest
that kept me safe.
His daddy’s is dull
with a mosaic back,
strong, steady,
the Saint standing firm.
And our sons
somehow both.
Like he was always meant
to carry pieces of us
without carrying our weight.
We’ll place it on a silver bunny
under a little dome
until he’s big enough to wear it.
Protection waiting.
Love paused but not broken.
I felt lost without him today.
An ache that hums
instead of screams.
And last night
I sorted my art box
until everything aligned —
edges straight,
colours ordered,
hands moving faster than thought.
My skin itched
like something under it
needed out.
A small tick.
A flicker.
Maybe my body
trying to file away
what my heart can’t fix.
Flat days still hold meaning.
Even when dreams hide.
Even when silver feels heavier
than it should.
Three pendants.
Mother. Father. Son.
One line of protection
still unbroken.
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 4:40 PM UTC
Each morning
before the world begins its noise,
I come to this quiet corner.
Behind clear glass
a small grey rabbit keeps watch—
soft, patient,
like it understands the meaning of waiting.
Around its neck
rests your St Christopher,
the guardian of travellers,
the keeper of long roads and safe returns.
You’re not lost.
You’re not gone.
You’re simply walking
a path that bends away from me
for now.
Your picture sits beside him,
eyes bright with that fearless little smile—
the smile that reminds me
why I refuse to give up.
Because mothers are strange creatures.
We can be broken
and still stand.
Burned by the world
and still carry fire.
Maybe that’s why
they call me Phoenix.
And every day
I leave this small promise here:
A rabbit to hold your place.
A saint to guard your journey.
A picture to keep your light in this home.
Not because you’re gone—
but because one day
your footsteps will find their way
back through this door.
And when they do,
the rabbit will no longer need to wait,
St Christopher will return to your chest,
and the space I’ve kept for you
will finally be filled
by the sound of my little warrior
coming home.
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 4:10 PM UTC