Washed Away
The old pictures,
borders coiled like dried autumn blades,
give only glances.
A youthful laugh, unheard now,
a sun long set on that certain day.
I try to piece it together,
the scent of the salt air then,
the weight of a hand in mine.
But the details drop,
like sand through open fingers.
There are times, sharp and sudden,
a song on the radio, a particular shade of blue,
that spark a phantom voice.
But the full narrative,
it recedes.
It's as if a mild current
is often pulling,
repulsing the fine lines,
blending the vibrant colors
into something softer, less defined.
"Memories buried in the wavering wash of time,"
they are there, I know,
just down below, harder to touch.
Like old tokens at the bottom
of a changing, sunlit stream.
And perhaps that's the blessing,
the tender fading,
leaving only the essence,
the warm hum of what once was,
not the sharp pain of what's gone.
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