Dust

It’s strange what we remember. Sometimes I’ll be doing something ordinary like folding laundry, walking past a certain tree, then suddenly and out of nowhere, a memory hits me like a dust stirred up from a quiet corner. Small things. A voice I haven’t heard in years. A joke that only one person used to laugh at. It’s not always nostalgic. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes I wish I could forget. But I think memory is how we hold onto the people and versions of ourselves that time tried to sweep away. They’re still in me. All of them. I carry them whether I mean to or not.

• Memory
• Past