Whispers of Yesterday

Beneath the old elm, where time once slept,

your laughter lingered—soft as a summer wind

curling through lace curtains,

tugging at dreams I dared not keep.

The sun used to filter through leaves

like secrets passed between us

in the hush of late afternoons.

The porch swing groaned like aching bones,

each sway a hush of stories half-forgotten.

You sat with your knees tucked,

reading poems aloud to the birds—

your voice a lilac in full bloom,

sweet, fleeting, full of ache.

There was a time your shadow

fell beside mine like it belonged—

long walks down gravel paths,

pockets full of pinecones and promises,

your hand brushing mine

like an accidental melody.

I still hum that tune

when the world turns too quiet.

Your goodbye wasn’t loud.

It slipped in like fog over fields,

slow and stubborn.

I didn’t notice you were leaving

until the coffee grew cold

and the books stopped opening themselves.

Now the rain finds its way in,

through cracks in the window and heart alike.

I keep the sweater you left

on the chair no one sits in,

worn and woolly, scented still

with hints of cinnamon and the past.

I talk to the wind sometimes.

It answers in shivers and creaks—

reminding me of all the things

we meant to say but folded away,

tucked between pages or under our tongues,

like pressed flowers, like regret.

You were never a storm,

but the silence after—

that heavy, shimmering hush

when the world holds its breath.

I visit the elm still,

its bark lined with years

and my initials carved beside yours—

faded now, but stubborn.

Even trees remember what we forget.

Yesterday knocks gently at my ribs

like a child unsure if it’s welcome.

I let it in anyway.

Sit with it.

Pour it tea.

And listen.

Because some ghosts don’t rattle chains.

They whisper.

And they loved you once.