Still Here

There are things I do now That weren’t mine before. I noticed one this morning And remembered it again tonight. I leave the hallway light on When I know I’ll come back late. I read the last page twice Before I put a book away. I wait a little longer Before I answer someone When the words come too quickly. You always gave them time. Back then, I never understood why. Some things stay unnoticed Until they become part Of how you move through a day. Still here, In ways I didn’t plan. In the route I take through town, In the music I don’t skip now, In the way I leave a question there And come back to it later. Still here. Not as a memory exactly. More like something I learned without deciding to. You once told me To look up at old buildings Before walking past them. I still do. Not every time. Enough that I know Where it came from. And there are words I use differently now. Not your words. Just words I learned To mean more carefully. It came in small ways. A habit here, A different answer there, A pause I didn’t use to take. Still here, In ways I didn’t plan. In the road I choose at dusk, In the things I leave unfinished, In the extra minute Before I decide I know enough. Still here. Not as a story I repeat. More like something That became normal. I don’t remember When any of this became mine. Some of it took years To make sense. And some of the things I resisted then Are the things I kept. Still here. Not in the same way. But sometimes I do something And know immediately I would not have done it before. Just a small difference. And I know where it came from. Still here. I looked up at the buildings today. You were right. You see more that way.