Childhood, family, memory

Tracing an outline

It collects in pockets,
on the edge of photo frames,
the sediment of sentimentality.

It gathers in the stillness of breath
waiting for your finger,
to trace an outline.

Cleaning is an exercise in utility,
every obliteration a momentary rejuvenation
time-travelling back to before we were old,
to before there was just




My two-year-old daughter was taking a nap at my parents’ place, and as I watched her blissfully sleeping, I noticed a dusty table that had been there forever.

My parents’ place is a reservoir of memories. Going home is always comfortable, but at the same time tinged with a sense of things slowly slipping away, even as they remain solid, permanent in your hand.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s