There are moments in childhood that leave no edges —
only softness.
only softness.
A quiet breath in the afternoon light,
small hands reaching toward nothing in particular,
the stillness between one wonder and the next.
small hands reaching toward nothing in particular,
the stillness between one wonder and the next.
These memories don’t speak in words,
they live in textures: warm light, gentle air,
the hush of time when it forgets to move.
they live in textures: warm light, gentle air,
the hush of time when it forgets to move.
This is where magic lingers —
in the ordinary that felt eternal.
in the ordinary that felt eternal.
