Springs and Memories

I sat down slow, feeling the ache

before the chair bit back,

a rusty spring catching my skin

like a pinch from the past.

Floral fabric worn thin,

a stub of thread dangling loose,

like the last thread of her voice,

soft, fading, but never quiet.

That chair held more than weight,

it held her stories stitched in fabric and bones,

now creaking beneath me

like the slow burn of absence.

I close my eyes and hear her

in the hollowed squeak,

a ghost pressing against the springs.