The Old Vase.

We remember so we don't forget. Of the pain, of the love, of resistance, of liberation. They will forget, their children will not remember. But our flesh has the memory stored in our bones, as we are born, it is born with us. In us. 

Forget about it. Forget about yesterday. Time that's to come is made by time that's gone by.

The bones remember, the flesh clings to what was, and with every breath, we resist. The past slips away with parts of us, we must hold it gently without letting its arms turn into binds. 

Can we live without leaving scars when we were all made of wounds? Can we make choices that feel like they reach beyond ourselves? 

We remember as if by instinct because we were forced to forget once. 

I hold the cracked vase gently. I wait for the glue to arrive. I can buy a new one now, but something tells me the old one will last longer. Once we trace our fingers over the scars, let them heal and fill them for all the space it has created. 

Maybe then, this vase can hold a few flowers too.