Memory sifted through their hands
Like water
Or like sand—
The kind of sand that lays flat
On desert ground
And all around the blistered feet
Of those who stand and watch the sun
With faces red
And cracking under heat
Filtered through dust—
Or like water.
Like water
In trickles
Between fingers pruning with excess
Trying to keep it there
Sickeningly aware
Of the weakness in the spaces
Between their fingers
And their hands—
Their memories fell right through
Splashed around their ankles
In a shallow pool
Reflecting upward
Not what was held
But what remained.
Recollections darkened
Not gone—
But changed
Into purples and blues
Certain as midnight
Uncertain as morning.
The light from those days
Did not disappear
It bent
Casting shadows
From the figures they had formed
In the mind—
Standing still
Even as everything else moved.
Not that they lied,
They simply could not see
That the laughter of then
Would return differently
That what once rang out
Clear and effortless
Would come back softened
Carrying weight
They had not yet learned to name.
They heard the voices
Of those they knew
From long ago days
When laughter was simple
Easy as something rolling
Downward
Without resistance—
Smooth in the hand
Bright in the light
Held up and turned
Until color revealed itself
And then slipped away again.
Recollections continued
Not fixed
Not held—
But moving
Across the surface of them
As water does
As sand does
Shifting
Settling
Lifting
And falling
Without asking permission.
Their memories were old
But inside them
Something remained
Not unchanged—
But present.
A trace
A tone
A warmth
That did not belong
Only to the past
But to the shape
Of what they had become.
Memory sifted through their hands
And still
Something stayed—
Not in the grasp
But in the holding
They could no longer see.
Recollections whispered
The passing time—
Not hurried
Not still—
Simple as a falling grain
Intricate as the path it takes.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Jill Szoo Wilson 