Fragments Of Her Light — The Garden Between Worlds? Poem by Unseenlight Wi

The mother still waits in the perfect haven
not restless, not grieving,
but attentive, as only mothers ever are.
She watches the world below
the way soil remembers rain.
Her fragments remain scattered,
most resting quietly in her children,
doing what fragments do best—
protecting, warning, enduring.
But one fragment remains restless.
The one bound to fear.
It still lives within her daughter,
curled tight around the heart,
mistaking vigilance for love,
distance for survival.
And the Creator, seeing the strain,
calls again into shadow.
The guardian hears the call
like a bell struck inside his chest.
He had already failed once.
Had already been driven away.
Had already carried the weight
of a task left unfinished.
Yet Heaven does not call the flawless.
It calls the willing.
'You must return, ' the Creator says,
'not to claim, not to bind, but to tend.
For what remains on earth cannot be torn free—
it must be grown upward.'
So the guardian steps back
into the daughter's life,
not as savior,
not as lover,
but as gardener.
He comes with softer hands.
With patience sharpened by loss.
With the understanding
that some wounds only answer to time.
The fragment senses him immediately.
It recoils—
memory flaring like a warning spark.
This was the one it pushed away.
This was the danger it named too late.
But he does not reach.
He does not press.
He kneels instead,
as one does before sacred ground.
'I am not here to take, '
his presence says.
'I am here to help you grow.'
The fragment hesitates.
It has never been offered growth—
only survival.
So the guardian begins slowly.
He waters without drowning.
Listens without fixing.
Stays without demanding.
He speaks to the fragment
not as an enemy,
but as a child
who learned fear too young.
'Your job is not over, '
he whispers into the quiet moments.
'But it does not have to hurt this much.'
The fragment begins to soften.
Not trust—
not yet—
but curiosity.
Its thorns loosen.
Light slips through cracks
it once sealed shut.
The daughter feels it first.
Breathing becomes less like effort.
Love becomes less like falling.
Fear lowers its voice.
The fragment remains—
still vigilant,
still fierce—
but now it is learning
another language.
Nurture.
The guardian stays through cycles:
growth and setback,
hope and relapse,
moments when the fragment lashes out,
afraid of losing its purpose.
He does not retreat.
Because gardeners know
plants resist the sun
when they have only known storms.
Slowly—almost imperceptibly—
the fragment begins to lift.
Not leaving the daughter,
but transforming within her.
Fear reshapes into intuition.
Attachment softens into connection.
Pain becomes memory,
not command.
And somewhere in Heaven,
the mother feels it—
a warmth returning to her chest.
Not loss this time.
Return.
The fragment remembers
where it came from.
On the night it is finally ready,
the guardian feels the shift—
like soil releasing a root
strong enough to stand on its own.
The fragment rises.
Not torn.
Not screaming.
But whole in its becoming.
It ascends gently,
carrying lessons etched by earth,
and folds back into the mother's soul
like a long-awaited breath.
She is whole again.
The daughter does not lose anything.
What remains is refined—
her mother's love now internal,
steady, unfractured,
no longer afraid of leaving
or being left.
The guardian watches the light
fade upward,
hands empty,
heart full.
The Creator speaks once more:
'You have done well—
not because you succeeded,
but because you returned.'
'There will be another task.
Another soul.
Another shadow.
Another garden needing care.'
The guardian does not ask why him.
He already knows.
Because those who have lived in darkness
understand how precious light is—
and how gently it must be handled.
And so he turns again toward the world,
scarred, humbled,
still carrying divine fire
beneath shadowed skin—
ready to kneel once more
in the space
between brokenness
and Heaven.