Learning to Answer

I am older now— 
too careful with words, 
too skilled at folding pain into politeness. 
The years have become a tide clock: 
ebb, work, sleep, repeat. 
I forget entire summers 
and remember only their invoices. 

I have begun to lose nouns: 
the names of birds, 
the taste of a certain afternoon. 

But verbs remain— 
to breathe, to ache, to forgive. 
When I walk, I still hear 
the child’s shoes slapping through puddles, 
echoes inside the bone— 
maybe that is enough. 

Time edits gently, 
crossing out in pencil, not ink. 
Even forgetting feels like snowfall, 
a soft covering, 
a mercy for what was too sharp to keep. 

You collect smooth stones, name clouds, 
believe the moon follows only you home. 
Keep that foolishness— 
there is a kindness in being wrong. 
One day you’ll trade it for precision, 
and precision has no mercy. 

You sound tired. 
Do you not still run in the rain? 
Even old hearts have rooms for puddles. 
If you’re lonely, you can borrow mine— 
it’s small, 
but it fits light. 

I write this to no one, 
and to every version of myself. 
The ink runs as rain will. 
Somewhere, a child is still laughing, 
and I am still learning 
how to answer.