Adena M'lynn's Voice

  i wish you would come for a visit. not a long stay, not a grand entrance, just just your voice breaking this silence that’s strangling me. i search for the answers to  why . why you stay away. why i lied.  why no chigger jokes. why the only echoes i hear are my own cries ricocheting off the walls of my mind. tears keep coming, uninvited but faithful, like they know something i don’t. they drip down my skin, salty proof that longing still causes pain. i what is it OK? i wish you would visit. i’d open the door to my heart so wide, it would creak on its hinges— but it wouldn’t slam shut. no. i’d hold it open like our promise, like a prayer i’ve whispered too many times, like hope that refuses to rot. and i’d greet you with a hug so fierce, so desperate, you’d feel every of missed smile pour out of me at once. the words i could never say would spill down my arms into your chest. will you just say hi? just one syllable, a crack in the distance, a bridge strong enough to carr...

The kitchen is a witness. It sees mornings begin with quick bowls of cereal, and evenings end with plates piled high, waiting to be washed clean. The fridge keeps the record— drawings in crayon, photos held by magnets, notes that curl at the edges. Each one tells a piece of the story. The kettle speaks through steam. The pots show their dents, each scratch a memory of meals shared and fights survived. The mixer stands strong, steady through birthdays and holidays, holding the weight of celebration. At night, when the lights go out, the kitchen stays. It keeps every sound, every smell, every mark— a silent witness to the life lived here.

Rain is woman. She moves in silence, a thousand silver tongues whispering life back into the dust. Fire is harm. It comes loud, cracks open the night, devours until nothing is left but blackened corners. When the flames die down, what’s left is the stench— smoke clinging to walls, to lungs, to memory. What’s left is the smoldering, embers pulsing like cruel reminders that pain doesn’t vanish just because the blaze has burned out. Men with matches call it love, but love does not leave a woman choking on ashes.  Love does not brand her skin with scorch marks. Yet rain— she returns anyway. She seeps into the ruin, turns char to soil, lays herself down on the embers until they lose their last breath of heat. Rain is woman. She carries the scars— but she also carries renewal. Though narcissistic men may set her aflame again and again, they will never outlast her. Because the stench fades, the smoke lifts, and what remains, always— is rain. ...

  Autumn whispers patience, not with thunder or urgency, but with the slow and gentle release of leaves. They let go one at a time, as if each one carries a truth that knows the right moment to be revealed. The air turns crisp and I find myself waiting—waiting for the first frost to sketch a glass web across the windows, for the harvest moon to rise steady over bare fields, for the apple’s sweetness to deepen in the cool night air. I notice how the trees teach patience. They do not force their release. They wait until the wind gives permission, until the branches themselves feel ready to loosen their grip. There is no rush, only timing. And in me, that same stillness echoes back. A rhythm whispering: do not hurry what must unfold. The leaf knows when it is time to fall. The seed knows when it is time to root. Patience, I realize, is not silence. It is  trust in the pace of the season, trust in the unseen work happening beneath the soil, trust that tomorrow will carry what t...

There’s something about autumn that teaches us kindness without a single word. The air turns crisp, carrying the scent of leaves surrendering to the earth, and even that act of letting go feels gentle. Trees loosen their grip, not in anger, but in grace—reminding us that sometimes the most generous thing we can do is release. The mornings arrive cool, almost tender, as if the world itself is offering a fresh breath to steady us. Neighbors wave a little longer, children laugh through scarves and sweaters, and the warmth of a shared cup of coffee feels like an unspoken kindness extended between friends. Autumn’s beauty isn’t loud—it doesn’t shout for attention. It glows. Kindness in autumn is the hand that offers you a blanket on a crisp morning. It’s a lesson stitched into the rhythm of falling leaves, life is fleeting, yes, but in every fleeting moment there is space for compassion and kindness.