by Dawn Knox
We breathe it in.
We breathe it out.
It surrounds us.
It fills us.
And it made me wonder if it recognises our shape.
Some people believe water has a memory.
Why not air?
How much air passed into you and out again, while you were alive, Mum?
And is your shape still invisibly impressed upon it somewhere?
If I could find the space where once you’d been, I would wrap my arms around it.
But perhaps, since I’m your daughter, I have already unknowingly embraced that air, and your space in it, is now a part of me.
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