Light Through Fractured Glass

Memory arrives as light through fractured glass— each shard a prism bending what was true, painting the wall in colors that never quite existed. We gather them, these broken pieces, and call them remembering.

The edges cut. That much is honest. Some mornings you wake with your grandfather's hands, the smell of wet earth on his palms, and you know nothing else with such certainty— until you remember you never knew him.

Time moves backward in these fragments, refracted, inverted, sometimes more vivid than the day itself. A single word echoes the weight of seasons. A song returns you to a room that no longer holds you. The glass reforms itself each time you look.

We live in the light that falls through these cracks, never seeing the whole window, only the scattered bright places where something was real. The rest we fill in— with hope, with longing, with the architecture of who we wish we'd been.