Memories
We carry the past the way the body carries scars—
not always visible,
but tender when the weather changes.
I remember the kitchen light at dusk,
my mother’s hands in the sink,
soap bubbles sliding over her rings
like small moons rising and breaking.
I didn’t know then
I was watching the future being built
from tired wrists and quiet love.
Every day is born from another day—
like a child stepping out of the dark hallway
into a room already warm with voices.
Nothing begins clean.
Even joy has fingerprints on it.
The past is a map we pretend not to need
until we are lost,
until we hear ourselves say words
we swore we would never say,
in tones we recognize from long ago.
But memory is not a prison.
It is a teacher with rough hands,
turning our face gently toward the light,
saying: Look. This is where you stumbled.
This is where you learned to stand.
To remember is to choose again.
To take the broken cup
and drink anyway,
knowing where the cracks will press
against the lip.
We need yesterday—
its bruises, its mercies—
so tomorrow does not arrive
like a stranger at the door.
Today, we shape a new self
from all we have been,
stitched with old threads,
walking forward
on roads our memories
have already cleared.
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