Grieving the childhood I don’t remember
is like reaching for shadows
that dissolve in my grasp.
This grief is not for what was lost,
but for what I’ll never truly know.
The missing pieces of my story
feel like hollow spaces in my chest,
a puzzle incomplete,
its edges fraying at the seams.
What were the colors of my world back then?
The songs that lulled me to sleep,
the scents that marked my days?
Was there safety in my smallness,
or did I learn too soon
that love could hurt,
that silence could roar louder than words?
I grieve not only the memories,
but the self that might have emerged
had those moments been different—
a softer version, unguarded,
perhaps untouched by the weight
of things I cannot name.
And yet, even in this absence,
there is a pulse,
a rhythm beneath the stillness,
a life that persists despite the forgetting.
For even if I cannot hold the memories,
I am still holding her...
Comments