Haze of a Memory

By KALEIGH DELBRIDGE, March 15, 2022


























a cracked picture frame sitting on a desk,

the way the sun shines through the cracks in the blinds,

a limp stuffed rabbit,

the sound of a kettle whistling;

at every turn, a memory.


the old green button-up i wear

is worn and faded in some places,

but i remember the vibrance it had on you. .


a movie playing from a tape—

the image is grainy but saturated.

on the case, worn and faded,

is a picture of a young girl and her dog.

the speakers buzz with static.


i still know which floorboards creak

whenever i visit, i make a game

of trying to not make a sound as i go to greet you.


i still cannot bring myself,

a sentimental fool,

to move on from my childhood,

spent running through the halls

of an old house with dreamt-up friends.


and now i am far away from home,

and you are sick,

but know i miss you,

i’ll be back soon.


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