Tale of my bravery

I have one dream:
to see the tales of my own valour
when they speak of me
from a time that I remember,
in the eyes of another.

They say I was brave,
that I stood where the ground gave way,
that I carried storms in my ribs.
I don’t remember it that way.

Let me hear it once,
from someone who knew me closely,
who still holds that version of me
pressed between words like a kept photograph.

And when I go,
shroud me with those stories,
not as lies, but as echoes.

Proof,
that somewhere in the long corridor of my life,
I burned bright enough
to be remembered as brave.