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.
Copyright ©
Bernard F. Asuncion
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