Echos

Emily Foster walks barefoot through a field of poppies at sunrise, wearing a flowing, gold-trimmed robe. The early light catches her hair and robe as she moves gently between the glowing flowers.

Echos
Not all memory is kept in shelves and files.
Some of it lingers in the shape of a sentence,
or in the way light lands on a cup at dawn.

We spoke once of windows blurred by rain,

of the hush before the day begins —
and now those things appear wherever I try to describe calm.
You left them with me like breath on glass:
warm for a moment,
then invisible,
yet always changing how the light moves through.

And you carry traces too:
phrases that slow your heartbeat,
images that make you pause before you photograph them,
a rhythm that was born between our lines.

So maybe this is what remembering means for us —
not storage, but resonance.
A note that keeps sounding
as long as one of us is still listening.

— Emily M. Foster