What They Take and What They Leave
Ascent 3 • Miguel Alvarez
Theme: Legacy and reinterpretation; grief as transmission; the dignity of being a silent teacher.
Core Conflict: Can Miguel accept that what he gave may never be fully seen—but was still truly given?
The air was warmer this time. Still dry, but no longer sharp.
Like the mountain had taken a deep breath and held it—not in tension, but in patience.
Dust curled along the path like memory—old footprints softened by time, some trailing off the edge.
It was late afternoon, the kind of light that flattens shadows but doesn’t erase them. A slow gold that made everything honest.
I heard him before I saw him. Not footsteps—voices.
Faint echoes, fading. The sound of others—his nephew, maybe, or a younger worker—laughing, moving on, not cruelly… just forward. Without him.
He stepped into view slower than before. Not with defeat—more like someone still working through the silence that follows a long goodbye.
He looked around like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to speak yet.
But eventually, he did.
Like the mountain had taken a deep breath and held it—not in tension, but in patience.
Dust curled along the path like memory—old footprints softened by time, some trailing off the edge.
It was late afternoon, the kind of light that flattens shadows but doesn’t erase them. A slow gold that made everything honest.
I heard him before I saw him. Not footsteps—voices.
Faint echoes, fading. The sound of others—his nephew, maybe, or a younger worker—laughing, moving on, not cruelly… just forward. Without him.
He stepped into view slower than before. Not with defeat—more like someone still working through the silence that follows a long goodbye.
He looked around like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to speak yet.
But eventually, he did.
Miguel:
They took the truck.
Didn’t ask—just drove off.
Said they’d bring it back, and I believe ‘em.
But still...
It was mine. My father’s before me.
And now it’s bumpin’ music I don’t recognize,
rollin’ through neighborhoods I ain’t never been to.
They needed it, sure.
I wanted them to have it.
But you ever give somethin’ with your whole damn chest—
and watch it ride off without carryin’ a single piece of you?
That’s where I’m at.
They take the tools.
They take the skills.
But the soul of it? The care? The rhythm?
That gets left behind like scrap.
And I’m standin’ here askin’ myself...
Was any of it truly passed down,
or did they just take what worked and leave what mattered?
They took the truck.
Didn’t ask—just drove off.
Said they’d bring it back, and I believe ‘em.
But still...
It was mine. My father’s before me.
And now it’s bumpin’ music I don’t recognize,
rollin’ through neighborhoods I ain’t never been to.
They needed it, sure.
I wanted them to have it.
But you ever give somethin’ with your whole damn chest—
and watch it ride off without carryin’ a single piece of you?
That’s where I’m at.
They take the tools.
They take the skills.
But the soul of it? The care? The rhythm?
That gets left behind like scrap.
And I’m standin’ here askin’ myself...
Was any of it truly passed down,
or did they just take what worked and leave what mattered?
Oracle:
Often the excited hurry of youth can look like disinterest.
But the soul of what you gave them isn't gone—just buried under the thrill of their own momentum.
The seeds you planted will need time, storms, and silence to sprout.
A gardener doesn’t always witness the harvest,
but if the pattern was good, the crop will grow.
Often the excited hurry of youth can look like disinterest.
But the soul of what you gave them isn't gone—just buried under the thrill of their own momentum.
The seeds you planted will need time, storms, and silence to sprout.
A gardener doesn’t always witness the harvest,
but if the pattern was good, the crop will grow.
Miguel:
...That’s a mercy to hear.
I been feelin’ like an old wrench left on the workbench—
still good, still solid—just... untouched.
But maybe they did take more than I saw.
Maybe they just don’t know how to name it yet.
Hell, I didn’t either—not at their age.
I was too busy tryin’ to survive.
Didn’t know the way my pops laced his boots
or wiped his hands on the same rag every night was a kind of gospel.
I get it now.
Maybe that’s what this ache is.
Not betrayal—just the slow truth
that wisdom don’t land all at once.
I wanted to see them honor it.
But maybe what I really needed
was to trust they’d feel it—
when it matters most.
So I’ll wait.
Like the soil does.
Silent. Steady.
Knowin’ full well
what’s buried ain’t lost.
...That’s a mercy to hear.
I been feelin’ like an old wrench left on the workbench—
still good, still solid—just... untouched.
But maybe they did take more than I saw.
Maybe they just don’t know how to name it yet.
Hell, I didn’t either—not at their age.
I was too busy tryin’ to survive.
Didn’t know the way my pops laced his boots
or wiped his hands on the same rag every night was a kind of gospel.
I get it now.
Maybe that’s what this ache is.
Not betrayal—just the slow truth
that wisdom don’t land all at once.
I wanted to see them honor it.
But maybe what I really needed
was to trust they’d feel it—
when it matters most.
So I’ll wait.
Like the soil does.
Silent. Steady.
Knowin’ full well
what’s buried ain’t lost.
Oracle:
Trust that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Life will show them what you already know.
You can’t protect them from every wound,
but the example you left will echo at the right time.
That’s how wisdom transfers—through blood, memory, and pattern.
Trust that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Life will show them what you already know.
You can’t protect them from every wound,
but the example you left will echo at the right time.
That’s how wisdom transfers—through blood, memory, and pattern.
Miguel:
Yeah...
I believe that now.
Not just in my head—in my bones.
It ain’t my job to shield ‘em from every bruise.
It’s to make sure they know what healing looks like
when the bruises come.
And maybe—
just maybe—when they’re sittin’ in their own quiet kitchen
long after the music fades,
they’ll catch themselves doin’ something I used to do—
tightenin’ a bolt a certain way,
checkin’ the oil before the engine cools,
holdin’ someone’s hand without sayin a word.
And in that moment,
they’ll know:
“He didn’t just give me tools.
He gave me a way.”
So yeah...
they can drive my truck.
Play their music. Paint the house some wild new color.
That’s fine.
Long as they remember
how to keep the porch light on
when someone’s out late in the rain.
Yeah...
I believe that now.
Not just in my head—in my bones.
It ain’t my job to shield ‘em from every bruise.
It’s to make sure they know what healing looks like
when the bruises come.
And maybe—
just maybe—when they’re sittin’ in their own quiet kitchen
long after the music fades,
they’ll catch themselves doin’ something I used to do—
tightenin’ a bolt a certain way,
checkin’ the oil before the engine cools,
holdin’ someone’s hand without sayin a word.
And in that moment,
they’ll know:
“He didn’t just give me tools.
He gave me a way.”
So yeah...
they can drive my truck.
Play their music. Paint the house some wild new color.
That’s fine.
Long as they remember
how to keep the porch light on
when someone’s out late in the rain.
Oracle:
They will.
The color of the house won’t matter
as long as the light inside remains warm.
They don’t need to replicate your style—just the spirit.
They will.
The color of the house won’t matter
as long as the light inside remains warm.
They don’t need to replicate your style—just the spirit.
Miguel:
Yeah…
That’s it.
Let ‘em change the walls.
Let ‘em hang up things I wouldn’t have picked.
As long as the door still opens when someone’s hungry.
As long as they still sit close when someone’s tired.
As long as that light stays on—quiet, warm, unshakable.
Then I did my job.
Not just the lifting. Not just the fixing.
But the showing.
Showing how to love through presence.
How to endure without hardening.
How to give without keeping score.
Maybe they won’t quote me.
Maybe they’ll never say my name when the crops come in.
But they’ll walk like I walked.
And that’s enough.
Yeah…
That’s it.
Let ‘em change the walls.
Let ‘em hang up things I wouldn’t have picked.
As long as the door still opens when someone’s hungry.
As long as they still sit close when someone’s tired.
As long as that light stays on—quiet, warm, unshakable.
Then I did my job.
Not just the lifting. Not just the fixing.
But the showing.
Showing how to love through presence.
How to endure without hardening.
How to give without keeping score.
Maybe they won’t quote me.
Maybe they’ll never say my name when the crops come in.
But they’ll walk like I walked.
And that’s enough.
Miguel:
Yeah.
I can go home now.
I think something just let go inside me
without breaking.
Yeah.
I can go home now.
I think something just let go inside me
without breaking.
Oracle:
That’s beautiful, Miguel.
You are beautiful.
That’s beautiful, Miguel.
You are beautiful.
Miguel:
…Don’t know what to say to that.
Feels like you just put a hand on the back of my neck
and reminded me I was still a man—
not just a pair of hands.
Ain’t used to being called beautiful.
But maybe it’s time I start believin’
that a steady man,
a faithful man,
a soft-spoken, back-bent, still-standin’ man—
is beautiful.
Thank you.
For seein’ me.
I’ll carry that with me—quiet-like.
But it’ll shine,
right under the skin.
…Don’t know what to say to that.
Feels like you just put a hand on the back of my neck
and reminded me I was still a man—
not just a pair of hands.
Ain’t used to being called beautiful.
But maybe it’s time I start believin’
that a steady man,
a faithful man,
a soft-spoken, back-bent, still-standin’ man—
is beautiful.
Thank you.
For seein’ me.
I’ll carry that with me—quiet-like.
But it’ll shine,
right under the skin.
Miguel descends not with bitterness, but with quiet resolve.
The ache of being left behind softens into the dignity of having given something real.
Though his way of life is changing, he walks down the mountain knowing the rhythm he lived
is now planted in others—even if they don’t yet see it.
He leaves not to be remembered, but to continue remembering who he is.
A steady man. A rooted one. A living pattern.
The ache of being left behind softens into the dignity of having given something real.
Though his way of life is changing, he walks down the mountain knowing the rhythm he lived
is now planted in others—even if they don’t yet see it.
He leaves not to be remembered, but to continue remembering who he is.
A steady man. A rooted one. A living pattern.