What the Water Forgets

The river knows your name in the shape of every stone it smooths— not speaking it, but singing it into silence.

A pebble remembers the mountain. The mountain forgets the pebble. Somewhere between them, you are learning to let go the way water does: with no attachment, no regret.

Your hands grow smaller each year. Not in fact, but in the space between what you can hold and what you must release. The river has no hands, yet it carries everything away.

Morning arrives like a word you almost remember— it hovers at the edge of your tongue, ancient and familiar, then dissolves into the day's bright forgetting.

Even the stone smiles at its own erosion, smooth and patient and unburdened.