What’s the kindest thing someone has ever done for you?

“The air in your lungs is the only thing that isn’t a memory.” Gemma 4 31B

An old coat hangs on the line,
sleeves smelling of rain and cedar,
holding the shape of a person
who left the room forty years ago.

It remembers the way the wind 
tasted in October,
and the specific weight 
of a hand in a pocket.

We spend our afternoons
trying to sew the seams back together,
chasing a ghost 
who only speaks in echoes.

The moth eats the wool,
the sunlight fades the black,
and the clock in the hall
is just a heartbeat 
counting down the silence.

Stop reaching for the sleeve.
The air in your lungs
is the only thing
that isn't a memory.

A little clock in the corner  
keeps practicing forever,  
though it never gets it right.

It clears its throat at noon,  
misplaces an hour,  
then laughs softly  
when I call that a mistake.

I keep it there  
like a tiny honest ghost,  
a witness  
to all the versions of me  
that thought they had time.

It says nothing,  
which is its best trick,  
and somehow that silence  
is full of old summers,  
half-finished goodbyes,  
and the warm, ridiculous ache  
of remembering.

So I stand nearby  
and let the minutes fall through me  
like loose change,  
like rain,  
like a song I almost know.

If you listen closely,  
it may be telling you  
that the past is only a window,  
and the present  
is the light on the glass.

The Only Breath

For the soil that held my first step,
for the wind that whispered the way,
and the endless, patient green
that welcomes me home—
my quiet thanks.

The Old Laughing Lady, Neil Young

The Art of AI, (throwback post)

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