The curtains
were blue.
That is
the stupid detail
my memory kept.
Not the date.
Not the weather.
Not what song
was playing.
Blue curtains
lifting
in the open window
as if the room
could breathe
even when
I couldn’t.
Years later,
I still see them
sometimes
when I close
my eyes.
Memory
is cruel
that way.
It saves
the wallpaper.
The chipped mug.
The way afternoon
light
fell across
the floor.
It lets
the important things
blur
while preserving
a color
with perfect devotion.
Maybe ghosts
do not haunt
houses.
Maybe they haunt
details.
A curtain.
A smell.
One floorboard
complaining
beneath a foot
that has been gone
for years.
If I ever return,
I wonder
whether the curtains
will still be there.
Or whether
the house
has finally
forgotten me
better
than I have
forgotten it.
Leave a Reply