The monsoon drifts away,
and sunlight tiptoes back into our homes,
slanting in through corners—
soft shafts of gold,
now here, now gone.

In their glow,
I discover remembrances,
once dusted away,
now ready to shine again.

Old closets breathe open,
drawers whisper of the past—
my mother’s laces, her crochet,
clothes folded with silence,
yet alive with touch.

Photographs, faded but unyielding,
cling to their stories.
Books tumble out of shelves and box beds,
their musty scent rising,
carrying the weight of family ties.

Remembrances are not about hope,
nor about new beginnings.
They are not choices—
what to keep, what to discard.

They arrive like old friends:
a sudden hello,
a quiet word,
enough to stitch us back
to where we last left off.

Remembrances—
they linger,
they breathe,
they last forever.