FRAGMENTS
by Sarah Chen
I.
Morning light fractures
through blinds, casting
geometric shadows across
the unmade bed. This is how
memory works: in pieces,
incomplete geometries.
II.
Mother's hands, flour-dusted,
pressing dough against
the countertop. The sound
of her voice, a half-remembered
melody. I collect these fragments
like sea glass, worn smooth
by time and distance.
III.
In dreams, the house
reassembles itself: doorways
leading to rooms that never
existed, windows overlooking
impossible landscapes.
I navigate by instinct,
knowing this place
that never was.
IV.
The photograph: faded,
creased at the corners.
Your smile, caught
between moments.
I try to remember
what happened next,
but memory fails,
a film cut mid-scene.
V.
We are all collections
of fragments: inherited gestures,
borrowed phrases, moments
preserved in amber.
I gather mine close,
these broken pieces
that somehow, together,
make a whole.