Piecing Together the Past

I sift through the past

like a riverbed in slow current,

hands moving through silt and stone,

lifting what hasn’t been dragged downstream

by shock, or time,

or the way trauma pulls whole moments

out of reach.

Each memory is a river-worn piece of something,

some smooth,

some jagged,

some so eroded

I can barely tell what they once were.

Others are only impressions in the sand,

shapes left behind

by memories I know existed

but can no longer touch.

I gather what remains,

harvesting whatever fragments

the water didn’t take,

sorting through them the way you sort

what’s left after a long season,

choosing what still holds truth

and what has gone hollow.

Not to rebuild the person I was

before the water rose,

she is scattered along distant banks

I may never find,

but to understand the pieces

still resting at my feet,

waiting to be claimed.

Trauma changes the flow.

Some memories surge up suddenly,

clear as winter water,

sharp enough to sting.

Others stay murky,

blurred by silt,

soft around the edges.

And then there are the deep pools,

places where the river swallowed whole seasons,

leaving only the knowledge

that something happened

in the dark beneath.

For a long time

I avoided this river completely,

afraid of what the current might carry back to me.

I believed turning away

was the only way to stay afloat.

But now I see it differently.

The cracks in me were never meant to stay hidden.

They are the places where the water catches the light,

where reflections shift

and show me where I’ve healed,

where I’ve mended,

and where I am still piecing together

what was never fully lost.

So I move slowly,

turning each fragment in my hands,

feeling its weight,

choosing what deserves to be kept

and what I can finally lay down.

Some pieces I let settle again.

Some I keep close.

Most I am still learning

how to understand.

And when I look at what I’ve gathered,

solid stones,

half-formed shapes,

and the empty spaces

where the river kept its secrets,

I see not a full map,

not a healed landscape,

but a shifting one.

A life still being shaped

by what the water gave back

and what it chose to keep.