a poem by Roger B. Rueda
Every blessing begins
like morning light
through gauze curtains—
soft, persistent,
unnoticed until it’s gone.
It looks like
your mother’s humming
in the kitchen, the kettle’s
gentle wheeze before
the boil.
Like the hand
you reach for
without thinking.
The kind of love
that doesn’t need
to be dramatic
to matter.
But blessings ignored
become
rooms you forget to enter.
They gather dust
in corners,
turn sour in jars.
Even warmth,
left untouched,
will mold.
The voice you once
heard each day
becomes a silence
too loud to sleep through.
The kindness you shrugged off
will learn
to withhold itself.
And one day,
what used to be light
returns as shadow—
not because it changed,
but because
you closed your eyes
too often
when it tried to shine.
So name what is good
before it turns
its back.
Say thank you
before the blessing
learns to leave.
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