The Threshold of Forgetting

Your hands forget the grip that held you steady through winters— fingers uncurl like ferns releasing their calcified fright.

The body is a house where every door has a ghost story. You learn to live with them first, then learn to let them leave.

Some mornings you wake up lighter, as if sorrow has a half-life, as if forgetting is just the body's way of healing.

The old ache comes to visit less often now. You don't answer. The silence grows less frightening.