A World That Holds
I remember Tante Tini standing at the stove.
I see her from behind, through the eyes of the child I was.
It smells warm, like home, like a world that holds.
Even then something in me knew:
keep this moment.
So deeply that I still carry it in my body —
a memory of a memory that has kept itself alive.
I grew up between my mother’s strength and Tante Tini’s calm —
a balance that shaped me.
Tante Tini never scolded me.
She let me be.
And through that, I deeply learned what safety feels like.
Now people think I am patient,
but the truth is: I learned patience from being seen,
from being held in that gentle balance
between my mother’s firmness and Tante Tini’s calm.
She never needed to teach — she just was.
When she left, my world trembled.
Because through her I knew:
the world can be good.
Not everyone can do that.
That quiet warmth that asks for nothing,
that patience that simply is —
that was her strength, her quiet magic.
Years later, when I was already grown and deeply sad,
she wrote me a letter.
I still have it.
I cannot read it now, but I remember her words:
“I see you. I know what the world can do.
I know it too.”
That is who she was to me —
someone who could see without judging,
who could know without hardening,
who could stay without needing to fix.
When Lucie was born, Tante Tini sent a blanket she had made herself —
soft, patient, full of time and care.
And somehow, that is exactly what she gave to life.
Now I sometimes see that same quiet goodness in Lucie —
in her gentleness, her laughter,
her way of caring for small things.
It feels as if Tini’s warmth found one more place to live.
The world can be glad she was here —
and I’m endlessly grateful that I was part of her world.
— In love! Stine
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