Impression Memory

"Just put your feet down child. The water is only waist high..."

Like a feather-light smudge of charcoal on white paper: the sky, now. I'm doing laundry, as the year thins down to a trickle of grains. Thinking of gulls at the beach. Feathers and waves. Sand and cloud.

Some time ago, on a foggy wintery day, I lightly pressed my hand into snow. I could feel the texture of the ice beneath my palm and fingertips. The touch left behind an impression. The impression left behind a memory.

Today touches that back.

And blends with the oceanic, soft grays, and the passing of time.