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.