Pam The Berkshire Medium

02/07/2026

The ocean barely moves,
holding its breath under the moon.
A figure stands half-formed,
caught between presence and memory.

Some days arrive without warning,
bringing you with them.
A sound, a smell, a color,
and suddenly I’m unsteady.

The red bird cuts through the air,
sharp against the pale sky.
Memory moves like that too,
quick, precise, unavoidable.

I don’t fall when it hits,
but I stop.
Breath takes a moment to return,
time adjusting itself around me.

These days pass eventually,
like waves pulling back.
But the impact stays honest,
a reminder of how deeply you mattered.

— Memories of You

02/07/2026

I wish I had the choice! 💔

02/07/2026

Night settles softly across the field,
stars appearing without urgency.
I light the candle the same way every evening,
a small ritual that steadies me.

Some nights I smile without warning,
caught by a memory that still knows how to shine.
Other nights my eyes fill quietly,
no explanation needed.

Often it’s both at once,
a warmth paired with ache.
I’ve learned they don’t cancel each other,
they coexist without conflict.

I see you in the pause between thoughts,
in the way the tree leans toward the dark.
Even the moon feels familiar,
like it’s seen this before.

I think of you while walking forward,
while standing still,
while letting the day finish
at its own pace.

Not a day goes untouched by you,
and I don’t try to change that.
Remembering has become part of breathing,
natural, constant, honest.

— Memories of You

02/07/2026

02/07/2026

That day sits heavier than all the others,
not loud, not dramatic, just final.
The air felt thicker than usual,
as if the world knew before I did.

I remember how still everything became,
how sound seemed to step back politely.
Even my thoughts moved slower,
unsure where to land.

I stood there holding ordinary seconds,
not knowing they were changing shape.
Nothing marked the moment as different,
except how my chest tightened.

The butterfly rests on stone beside me,
light touching something that won’t move.
Its wings open and close carefully,
as if respecting the weight nearby.

That was the day before everything adjusted,
before memory became my constant companion.
I didn’t lose my footing all at once,
I learned imbalance gradually.

Now that day lives quietly inside me,
never asking for attention.
It doesn’t define every hour,
but it never leaves the room.

— Memories of You

02/07/2026

This is not how life is suppose to be. Our child should be with us for the rest of our life, not the other way around.