Forgetting

It happens slowly,

like snow melting from the branch,

one drop,

then another.

You don’t notice at first

how light the tree has become.

I used to fear forgetting,

the way faces fade,

the way names slip through the fingers

like small silver fish.

But now I see

it is part of the mercy of things.

How the tide forgets

each footprint,

how the wind lets go

of its own voice.

Still, something stays

a scent of rain,

a flicker of laughter

in an empty room.

Perhaps forgetting

isn’t erasure

but translation

the heart learning

a quieter way to remember.