The Reverse of Remembering

I stepped through a crack in the wind—
not a door,
not a dream,
but something stitched between sighs.
The world folded inward,
then bloomed
in reverse.

Rain climbed from soil to sky,
pulling forgotten tears from the ground.
They shimmered like glass birds
mid-flight,
each one chirping a memory
I didn’t know I had.

Time moved backward here.
I saw myself
un-age—
laughter wrinkling out of my eyes,
scars sealing like zipper-teeth,
grief turning into wonder,
then into
nothing.

Emotions walked the streets—
some on fire,
some wrapped in velvet,
some shivering,
naked and raw.
I passed a shadow made of rage;
it snarled and then wept
because I wouldn't look away.

Love was a cathedral
built of heartbeat stones.
I entered through its ribcage gate
and knelt beside a version of me
who still believed
she wasn't enough.
I offered her silence.
She gave me a flower
that bloomed in both hands
at once.

Everyone I met wore
my eyes—
but from different lives.
The child who danced in dandelions.
The liar who meant well.
The lover who left.
The ghost I pretend I’m not.
They spoke in riddles
but I understood
every word.

When I returned,
I brought back
the scent of old rain,
a pocket of laughter
from when I didn’t know what pain was,
and the name
of the part of me I’d buried:
Hope.

It doesn’t shine.
It doesn’t sing.
But it waits.
And now,
so do I.

© Carolina Borges 2025