At the Windowsills of Memory

At the Windowsills of Memory

I stand at the windowsills of my memories.

Images and sounds rush by swiftly.

I still hear my mother’s voice—

my father’s singing, lyrical and nostalgic, echoing in my ears.

The old trees in the yard still stand,

green and beautiful, untouched by time—

deep-rooted, like the roots of my recollections.

This is the past that shaped me.

This is what keeps me still standing.

I reflect and remember;

I remember and reflect…

Yet, what, I wonder, does the future hold for us?