My Life In Word

The Shape of Remembering

When I close my eyes
he is not gone.
He arrives in pieces—
the slope of his shoulders in lamplight,
the way his laugh started in his chest
before it reached his mouth.
I see his hands first.
Always his hands.
The small scar he never explained.
The way they steadied the world
without trying to.
Sometimes he is younger,
sometimes older.
Memory does not respect time.
It keeps what it needs.
I see the kitchen as it was at dusk,
dust floating like quiet prayers,
his name resting unsaid on my tongue.
I hear the ordinary music of him—
keys, breath, footsteps fading down a hall.
Grief brings him closer than life ever did.
In remembering, I touch him again,
not with hands,
but with attention.
He has died.
I know this.
But when I close my eyes,
he is still becoming—
still moving through me,
still teaching me how love
does not end,
it changes shape.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Liana S on Unsplash

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