The Roots Beneath My Steps

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I remember him most in the early mornings,

when the village was still half-asleep.

The kettle sang softly.

His footsteps moved like prayer across the yard.

He rarely spoke of love.

Instead, he left it everywhere,

in the swept veranda,

in the well rope coiled neatly for my small hands.

When I walked to school,

he followed me only with his eyes.

The laterite road remembers this,

how his shadow stayed behind,

so that mine could grow longer.

Evenings brought his tiredness home.

Red earth clung to his feet,

work to his silence.

He washed his hands slowly,

as if erasing worry before touching me.

When storms shook the roof,

he sat awake near the lamp.

The rain argued loudly,

but his stillness always won.

He never taught me how to speak boldly.

He taught me how to remain,

steady as the well,

patient as fields waiting for rain.

Now the house feels larger than it should.

The chair still faces the door.

I carry his quiet into my courage,

and walk the world,

still held by the man

who loved me without saying it.

Reflections on the Poem "The Roots Beneath My Steps"

This poem is not about a man who spoke often.
It is about a man who stayed.

When I look back now, what returns to me first are not his words, but the mornings. The village is still half-asleep. The kettle begins its small song. His footsteps move across the yard with the familiarity of prayer. Nothing dramatic happened in those hours, yet everything essential was already being done. Love was being practised quietly, without announcement.

He did not believe love needed to be named. He trusted it to show itself in small, repeatable acts, in a swept veranda, in a rope coiled carefully at the well, in readiness. These were not chores. They were his way of saying, I have thought of you before you asked.

When I walked to school, he did not walk beside me. He knew that walking alone was part of growing. So he stayed back, letting distance do its work, letting my shadow lengthen while his remained behind. Only now do I understand that this was not absence. It was a restraint. It was love choosing not to interfere with becoming.

Evenings carried his tiredness home. Work clung to him like red earth. Silence followed him closely. He washed his hands slowly, as if the day needed to be set aside before he could touch what mattered. Strength, in our house, was never loud. It knew how to soften itself.

During storms, he never argued with the rain. He simply stayed awake. A lamp nearby. A chair pulled close. His stillness was enough to steady the room. Fear learned its limits there. I learned mine too.

He never taught me how to speak boldly. He did something harder. He taught me how to remain. How to stand without needing to prove. How to wait without losing faith. Like a well that does not shout about water. Like fields that trust the sky, even in dry seasons.

Now the house feels larger than it should. Some spaces remain untouched. A chair still faces the door, as if return is always possible. And perhaps it is, just not in the way we expect.

I carry his quiet into my courage.
I walk forward with what he gave without saying.
And only now do I understand:
Some loves do not follow us loudly into the world.
They hold us from underneath, like roots beneath our steps.

The Roots Beneath My Steps

The Roots Beneath My Steps

Reflections on the Poem "The Roots Beneath My Steps"

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