The arrive uninvited,
soft-footed across time,
slipping between thoughts
like sunlight through an old window.

A chair,once occupied.
The rhythm of a familiar voice,
still echoing
in the quiet spaces of now.

They do not ask for attention,
only appear-
in the scent of rain on warm pavement,
or the tilt of someone's smile
that almost mirror's a face
long gone.

These moments are not sharp.
They do not wound.
They warm from within,
as if the past
wrapped itself gently
around the shoulders of the present.

No need to hold on tightly.
They are already part of you,
stitched into the fabric
of who you became
when you weren't looking.

Fond memories-
not lost,
just resting.