There was an auntie at the breakfast shop on Old Street,
She remembered that I liked my milk warm, my noodles plain.
She'd wave me in from the rain, say sit down, sit down,
The morning's cold. Drink up. Don't rush.
I never knew her name. She never asked for mine.
She just knew my order. She just knew I was a kid who came alone.
Then one year the shop was gone. No note, no sign.
I walked past the empty window three times that week.
I hope she's okay. I hope she just retired.
I hope someone remembers her order too.
Some people pass through like morning light,
Stay just long enough to make you feel seen.
We don't know their names, they don't know ours,
But something of them stays in the bones of who we become.
There was a sister next door, a few years older than me,
She had long hair and a quiet way of laughing.
She taught me how to ride a bike on the cracked pavement,
Said don't look down. Just look where you want to go.
I've forgotten her name now. It's been so many years.
But I still look where I want to go.
Some people pass through like morning light,
Stay just long enough to make you feel seen.
We don't know their names, they don't know ours,
But something of them stays in the soul of who we become.
And there was a woman who taught me piano in a small white room,
Her voice was soft but her hands were sure.
She'd place my fingers on the keys, one by one,
Said the music is already in you. I'm just showing you where.
I quit when I was twelveโI wanted to play outside.
She just smiled and said the piano will wait for you.
I don't know if she's still teaching. I don't know if she's still alive.
But sometimes when I hear a piano, I think: she was right.
The music was already there.
Some people pass through like morning light,
Stay just long enough to make you feel seen.
We don't know their names, they don't know ours,
But something of them stays in the breath of who we become.
And now I know how to be gentle.
I know how to look forward.
I
We don't know their names, they don't know ours,
But something of them stays in the breath of who we become.
Some people pass through like morning light,
We don't know their names, they don't know ours,
But something of them stays in the bones of who we become.