The Soft Machinery of Memory

 

About once a week, something makes me cry.

Not the kind of crying that announces itself with sobs or explanations. It’s quieter than that. It sneaks in sideways—through a glimpse, a sound, a passing face, or a flicker of memory I didn’t know was still lit. I’ll be walking, scrolling, washing dishes, and then suddenly I’m not. I’m somewhere else entirely. My thoughts scatter like birds startled from a wire, and before I can gather them again, my eyes well up.

And I ask myself: Why am I crying?

Sometimes I call my best friend. He’s got this gift—he can trace the emotional thread back to its source in seconds. He’ll say, “Oh, it’s because that photo reminded you of  (private) ,” or “That song carries the same chord as the one you played during  (private).” He’s like emotional sonar. I don’t always call him, though. Sometimes I just let the tears come. I let them do their quiet work. And about thirty seconds later, I’m done.

It’s not sadness, exactly. It’s more like a release. A soft exhale from some part of me that’s been holding its breath. A reminder that I’m still porous, still paying attention, still stitched together by memory and meaning even when I don’t realize it.

These moments don’t ask for resolution. They don’t demand a story. They just arrive, do their work, and leave. Like a passing raincloud that waters something underground.

Earlier today, I read those first few lines again—“About once a week, something makes me cry…”—and I felt it. That familiar wetness rising. Not enough to spill, just enough to shimmer. I kept reading. I didn’t cry. I didn’t need to. The feeling passed, but it left a trace. Like a fingerprint on glass. Like a ghost tapping gently on the shoulder of my attention.

I used to think I needed to explain these moments. Now I think they’re proof that I’m still connected—to my past, to my people, to the parts of myself that live just below the surface. They’re small floods of feeling that remind me I’m still here. Still feeling. Still open.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

currently listening to All Day, All Night by Jill Jones (with Prince & The Revolution)