We mistook the gate’s click for the apex
of departure. We were wrong.
Asphalt holds its ground; the ceiba
roots deeper into the ditch, and cracked plaster
learns to outlast the names we gave the rooms.
Even the wind turned stubborn,
nesting in the rafters we abandoned.
Decades rinse away the handwriting,
the phone numbers, the practiced tones
of voices we once knew by heart.
What lingers is the low-voltage rattle
of a screen door slapping its frame
against a Tuesday afternoon.
Memory is an unprincipled archivist.
It drops the ledger to salvage the rust.
Waking before the birds,
I find the inventory reduced to this:
not the spine of the story,
but the iron teeth of the echo.
© 2026 W. E. Ticas.
First published at weticas.com.
All rights reserved.
