Washed Away

The old photographs, edges curled like dried autumn leaves, offer only glimpses. A younger laugh, unheard now, a sun long set on that specific day. I try to piece it together, the scent of the salt air then, the weight of a hand in mine. But the details slip, like sand through open fingers. There are moments, sharp and sudden, a song on the radio, a particular shade of blue, that spark a phantom echo. But the full story, it retreats. It's as if a soft current is always pulling, erasing 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 deeper, harder to reach. Like old coins at the bottom of a shifting, sunlit stream. And perhaps that's the blessing, the gentle fading, leaving only the essence, the warm hum of what once was, not the sharp ache of what's gone.