It's Still Life

#10 Liturgy for the Memory That Lingers
(for the tricks the past plays on the heart)

I. The Scent That Refuses to Leave
You open a closet door,
and though the clothes are gone,
given away to someone else’s life,
the scent of the one who wore them
still hangs in the air like a held breath.

Strawberries and cold cream.
Tobacco and wool.
The particular warmth of a person
who is no longer there.

The scent does not ask permission.
It simply arrives.
And you are sixteen again,
or forty,
or the age you were
when you last felt safe.

II. The Pan That Will Not Be Thrown
The old frying pan, blackened and worn,
should have been thrown out years ago.
The handle is loose.
The surface is scratched.
It is not a good pan anymore.

But you cannot part with it.
Because it held the eggs she made you on Sundays.
Because it knew the weight of her hand.
Because too many dinners, too many mornings,
too many quiet conversations
were served from its surface.

It is not a pan.
It is a record.
And you cannot throw away a record
of love.

III. The Cat
A cat begins to visit you,
it comes through the garden,
sits on the step,
looks at you with an expectation
that feels like belonging.

You talk to it.
You tell it things you have not said aloud
in years.

Perhaps it senses
that you need someone to witness
the quiet of your afternoons.
It listens.

IV. The Phrase That Returns
A phrase you have not thought of in years
arrives in your mouth,
the way she said your name,
the way she laughed,
the way she would end a phone call.

You remembered this,
warm and familiar
as if it never left.

Memory is stored in the body.
In the hands that held the pan.
In the nose that knows her scent.
In the tongue that still tastes her name.

V. For the One Who Remembers
Breathe the scent that arrives without warning,
let it remind you that love
does not fade as easily as a coat.

Keep the pan that cannot be thrown away,
its weight is a comfort,
not a chain.

Let the cat visit,
it will teach you
that loyalty is not ownership.

Hold the phrase that returns,
it is a gift,
not a wound.

And may memories
be not a weight,
not a curse.
You are not haunted.
You are held.