Goodness By Mak Sabwami ’24
Our best days go by quicker than our worst
Some days, watercolors paint themselves across the canvas of our minds Our hands know pens like they know their own palms Notes ring through tunnels, caves, canals Whispers are like breezes in our heads, the coolness keeping balance with the warm sweet nothings that follow Those days, all is fine More than that, all is good
How rare it is, for all to be good For us to be at peace with every ounce of ourselves
But those days pass As all days do And new days come As all days do
Some days clouds don’t part making for murky water, heavy shoes Somehow we can’t think Somehow we can’t speak Somehow we can’t breathe Everything seems to escape as soon as we catch it When we bend back the pages of our thoughts we cannot reread
These days etch themselves into the marble of our brains until all we have left of the best days is the faint pitch of the notes the palmful of colorless brushstrokes The memory of goodness 67
