Not fixed, memory is a malleable thing,
It swells and slips, elusive glides and flows,
Like clouds that drift upon the wind.
The views, once clear, become obscured by mists
that landward flow from shifting tide to hide
the fading touch of a departed’s kiss.
But who’s to say that what we sense is false,
that mutating recollections are a lie
and that our limited minds are at fault?
Perhaps what matters is what’s left behind,
the present impact, generous or unkind?

Reflecting on my memories ahead of a funeral tomorrow, and how our recollections of people fluctuate and change, I’m left wondering if that really matters. Where do we find meaning and truth if all we ever know is filtered by interpretation?
(08.10.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Ian Wetherill on Unsplash