Dusty whispers beneath the bed,
a small bracelet, forgotten,
like the echo of a laugh,
lingers in the air,
where memories fragment.
The waiting room, a puskesmas chair,
silent witness to passing hours,
holds stories, untold,
like this bracelet,
nestled in its quietude.
I watch from afar, detached,
as if the world spins,
without me,
the bracelet a tether,
to moments once lived.
A misspelled word, almost right,
like a memory, nearly forgotten,
reminds me,
penance is part of growth,
and so is finding this bracelet.