Writers 
Yesterday Still Knows My Name
Sometimes yesterday finds me
in the middle of an ordinary day.
It comes through an old melody,
through the smell of dust after rain,
through a photograph fading at the corners,
and suddenly, I am no longer here.
I am home again.
Someone is laughing in the kitchen.
Children are racing beneath the evening sun.
A voice I have not heard in years
is calling my name
as though time has not touched us.
Memory is a quiet magician.
It turns seconds into treasures
only after they are gone.
How strange that we spend our lives
waiting for extraordinary days,
then discover too late
that the ordinary ones were sacred.
The long conversations.
The crowded rooms.
The shared meals.
The foolish jokes.
The walks with nowhere to go.
We thought they would last forever.
Nothing told us
to look more carefully.
Nothing whispered,
Remember this.
So we let the moments pass
like birds across an evening sky,
never knowing how desperately
we would someday wish
to call them back.
But memories do return.
Not whole.
Never whole.
They come in fragments,
soft around the edges.
A smile.
A doorway.
A hand in yours.
A face illuminated by afternoon light.
And for one trembling moment,
the distance between then and now disappears.
Perhaps that is why memory hurts.
It reminds us that we once held
what we can no longer reach.
Yet perhaps that is also why memory heals.
Because nothing truly loved
vanishes completely.
It leaves its echo.
Its warmth.
Its fingerprints upon the soul.
So let yesterday visit.
Let it sit beside you.
Let it tell you who you were,
who you loved,
and how deeply you once lived.
Then rise and return to today,
carrying the beautiful truth
that while time moves forw
ard,
the heart remembers backward.
And somewhere inside you,
yesterday still knows your name.
