An Enigma that Remembers

What I know fits in the curve of my palm, a breath, a name, a single drop balancing on skin before it slides back into mystery.

What I know is how basil smells in July, how laughter sounds when it’s real, how to hold a child without breaking. What I don’t know is everything else. And I bless the unknown.

I don’t know why the stars speak in silence, or how the ocean remembers the moon, or what love does when no one’s watching. But I feel it. I don’t know the names of every ancestor who casts light into my bones. But I know they’re listening. I don’t know how I got here with this ache and this fire and this laugh that refuses to die. But I did. I’m here. And that’s enough.

What I know is a drop. What I don’t know is the ocean. But I walk into it barefoot, hands open, mouth soft, heart loud. I don’t need to understand it all. I just need to feel as much of it as I can while I’m still here. So that someday I am the ancestor lighting the bones of the ones that come after.

For we are only just a comet. And yet an enigma that remembers eternity.