The Line in Blue Ink

Dust motes danced

in the weak attic light.

I pulled the box, marked 'Old School',

found it there, beneath a t-shirt, tight

around its brittle spine.

The yearbook fell open,

to pages crammed with names,

faded smiles, half-forgotten games.

And then, yours, in blue,

a steady hand I knew,

but hadn't thought of since.

'Keep building bridges,

not just walls,' you wrote.

Four words, plain, almost rote.

But I was crumbling then,

my own foundation weak,

and that small counsel, heard

in my own hollow, saved me, so to speak.

It’s still there, a soft, unwavering tone,

a small truth I'd forgotten I owned.