I feel….

Memories are like holding a fistful of sand, which is to say that the instinct to secure them—to close the hand, to make a possession of what was once just there—only hastens their escape, leaving only the impression of having held something once. I think, one can retain them better by keeping the palm open. By consciously pausing. To let the sand rest there, shaped briefly by the lines of the hand. The wind will take what it must, layer by layer, and what remains will settle on its own. You cannot walk while holding it this way. Nor can you lower your arm. To remember requires a quiet effort, a deliberate stillness—a choice to stand, attentive, and allow what endures to do so without force.