Blissful Mornings - The Quiet Heroine by the River

For Sonia — whose quiet strength and sacred name live on in every

current of love.

The canoe moved gently, barely parting the water, as the last light of day spilled across the

river in hues of amber and apricot. Sonia paddled in silence, her body steady, but her spirit

floating in a realm only the heart could navigate.

This was her refuge. Her ritual. A quiet escape from the household of bustling siblings and

endless caregiving. On the river, she was not their surrogate mother, not the one who held

everything together. Here, she was herself.

Or rather… she was Vernardita.

Vernardita…

The name moves through the wind like a secret prayer returning home. As the canoe glides

across the golden water, her hands steady the paddle, but her spirit drifts—backward, into

memory.

She is Sonia now, known to many as the strong one, the sister who knows how to soothe a

fever, braid a ribbon into a child’s hair, cook three meals before noon. But the river

remembers her as Vernardita—the little one with eyes wide as mango leaves, the girl who

listened more than she spoke, who once tied blossoms into her curls and dreamed of telling

stories no one had time to hear. Tonight, the river holds her.

The lull of the water hushes the names she has learned to answer to and returns the one she

had nearly forgotten. Vernardita. It’s not just a name—it’s her beginning.

She closes her eyes as the sun sets in hues of rose and honey. The boat, small and familiar, is

her temple. This ritual of returning to the river is hers alone—a stolen hour from the clamor

of household demands. It is here she lets herself remember:

The sound of her mother humming.

The quiet joy of feeding ducklings with rice.

The dreams she held before becoming everything for everyone.

She doesn’t yet know that she is stepping into the lineage of women who endure with

elegance. That the children she tends to will one day speak of her in reverence. That her

name—Sonia—will carry weight, but Vernardita will carry soul.

Just as Sonia lays the paddle gently across her lap, the water hushes even further—still now,

like breath held in reverence. A hush so deep it seems the river itself is listening.

And then she hears it.

A soft ripple, not from her boat. Not from wind. A gentle swirl, as if someone else were

near—yet no one is. And yet… she feels it. A presence not visible to the eye but sensed by

the soul.

The air thickens with memory.

“Vernardita…”

It comes again, like the echo of a lullaby long forgotten. Not from behind. Not from the

banks. From the water—within the water. The same water that baptized her childhood, that

cooled her bare feet on humid island days, that carried fish wrapped in netting home to her

hungry siblings.

And in that moment, she understands:

The river remembers her.

Not just Sonia, the caretaker, the dependable one. But Vernardita—the tender, the dreamer,

the quiet soul who used to speak to birds and believe the moon had a secret name just for

her.

She places her hand in the water, and it’s as if time bends slightly. The river embraces her

fingers like an old friend. And she feels it—what she’s never said aloud:

That love gave her strength, but sacrifice gave her shape.

That tending to others carved out the woman she became.

That even in exhaustion, she never stopped being the girl in the boat, looking up at the sky

with wonder.

And so she whispers back, barely audibly, voice catching:

“I remember too.”

-Bliss Chains Authors