We walk back softly,
where the light once knew our names,
where afternoons stretched like lazy cats
and time forgot its edges.
The past is a house without walls—
we step inside and feel the furniture
of old laughter,
the dust of arguments that never quite settled.
There are faces there
that still turn when we speak,
voices preserved like pressed flowers
between the pages of who we were.
I remember how hope felt lighter then,
how sorrow came without instructions,
how love was reckless
and did not ask to be kept safe.
Now we carry those moments
like coins warmed by a pocket—
small, ordinary, invaluable—
proof that we were once here,
and that we lived.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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Brenda, this is breathtaking. You’ve built a world in so few lines—a world I feel I’ve lived in, too. The image of the past as “a house without walls” is achingly beautiful and so true. It’s that feeling of walking through a memory, able to touch everything but hold nothing. And the closing stanza, about carrying moments like warmed coins… that is a line I will carry with me. It’s a perfect, gentle homage to a life fully felt. Thank you for this gift.🌷🤝
Thank you—truly. Your reading of it feels like a continuation of the poem itself. That image you pulled forward, “a house without walls,” is so close to how memory lives in me too, and knowing it resonated in that way is deeply affirming. And the fact that the line about warmed coins will travel with you… that’s the highest gift a reader can give a writer. I’m grateful you stepped into that world with me and named it so tenderly. 🌷🤍