What the Wind Remembers

The wind remembers things we forget.

It carries the laughter we left behind on porches,

the promises we folded into paper cranes,

and the scent of rain before it starts to fall.

It hums through narrow alleys where our shadows still stay,

telling stories to trees that have always been listening.

We think we are moving forward,

but really we keep going around—

around moments, around people,

around the quiet pain of goodbyes that are never done.

The heart doesn’t understand distance.

It keeps reaching across time

as if time is just another word for light.

There are mornings when memory comes without asking,

wearing the shape of a song we know well.

It sits beside my coffee,

asks if I still write letters to the past.

I say yes, sometimes—

when the night feels too big,

when the stars refuse to answer.

There is a language only the wind can speak:

a silence that says you were here,

a sigh that whispers you are still.

It moves through me like forgiveness,

soft but sure,

turning every scar into a pattern in the sky.

We spend our lives trying to hold on to what lasts,

in a world that is always changing.

But maybe that’s the truth—

to find beauty in what passes away,

to love even what we lose.

The wind reminds me:

nothing truly goes away,

it only changes—

memory into echo,

echo into breath,

breath into becoming.

So I open the window wide,

let the wind tell me who I am again,

and step into the silence

that remembers everything I’ve ever been.