I Remember

By Peter Bowden
There are moments, especially in the hush of evening, when the unsaid things rise like smoke. Do you ever hear them? The words I never found time or courage to speak. They come back now, whispering in the folds of silence, asking if you knew—if you know. Small things, maybe, to anyone else. But to me, they thunder. They beg to be freed, to find a voice, to be felt. That’s what matters most—feeling. Not just hearing, but knowing. In the pause between night sounds, or the quiet stillness of a sunlit room, can you hear it? That faint voice? That’s me. Still trying.

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