Memories are windows
of old glass—
warmed by sunlight,
warped by time.
of old glass—
warmed by sunlight,
warped by time.
Some don’t leave.
They wait
for a smell,
a song,
a touch.
They wait
for a smell,
a song,
a touch.
Sometimes they unravel me.
Sometimes they keep me company.
Sometimes they keep me company.
Some memories I keep hidden,
folded deep inside—
too sacred
or too fragile
to speak aloud.
folded deep inside—
too sacred
or too fragile
to speak aloud.
Sometimes I need other people
to carry the parts
I can't hold myself.
to carry the parts
I can't hold myself.
And there are memories
that belong to many—
shared laughter around a table,
grief passed hand to hand,
stories retold
until the missing pieces come back.
that belong to many—
shared laughter around a table,
grief passed hand to hand,
stories retold
until the missing pieces come back.
When memory falters,
it takes more than one heart
to hold it.
It takes a village
to gather what was lost
and make it whole again.
it takes more than one heart
to hold it.
It takes a village
to gather what was lost
and make it whole again.
My memory holds every wound.
The joy—I know it happened,
but slipped out of reach.
The joy—I know it happened,
but slipped out of reach.
Maybe the quiet lesson
is not to live looking over our shoulder,
searching for answers
in what has already gone—
but to find joy here,
in the unfinished present,
in the life still asking
to be lived.
is not to live looking over our shoulder,
searching for answers
in what has already gone—
but to find joy here,
in the unfinished present,
in the life still asking
to be lived.
Because sometimes
a life moving forward
cannot be fully understood
by looking back at all.
a life moving forward
cannot be fully understood
by looking back at all.
-
Author:
Chuck Peterson (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 13th, 2026 15:29
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem began as a reflection on memory. But as I wrote it, I began to understand how trauma embeds itself while joy fades—the way you can know something good happened, yet can’t feel it in your body the way you feel the wound. This poem is not about resolution; it’s about being present—learning to live in the unfinished now, even as the past continues to call.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 4
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.