Echoes: Truth—Sept 3
What echoes in me
are the truths I cannot silence.
They ripple through my bones,
through breath,
through the hollow spaces I thought were forgotten.
I smell them before I hear them—
the sharp bite of beer from my grandmother’s breath,
the sweetness of bread rising in a neighbors kitchen,
the sting of cigarette smoke curling in the dark,
each scent a messenger
bringing the past into my present.
These echoes carry voices—
my own when I was small and searching,
the light of those who loved me without condition,
the leaders whose words once lit torches in the dark.
They come back to me on the trail of scent—
a perfume spilled on Sunday clothes,
the earthy musk of rain on clay,
the iron tang of blood when I was too young to bleed.
between who I was
and who I am becoming,
reminding me that words and smells and moments
don’t vanish—they seep into the air,
and when the wind is right,
they return.
They reverberate inside me,
reshaping my breath,
shaping tomorrow.
I carry them like incense,
rising, curling,
a stream of memory and truth.
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