Comhroinn Fuaime

When Memory Grows Tired When memory itself grows tired of reminding me what cannot be undone, it doesn't leave. It settles into a numb noise inside the brain— low and static, like a radio no one turned off. Today, my uncle died. And suddenly you were here again— not in the room, not in the light, but clawing at the hollow beneath my ribs where you have lived since the day you stopped living. It is the same arrival, every time: a sudden weight, a sudden cold, the sensation of drowning in dry air.