Worn

Memories made threadbare
with repeated handling;
some from fond recollection
and others dwelt in like haunted homes.
Bones and rags
polished and cherished
as a shrine to loss;
others bright shiny stones
carried as talismans of places
and days long past.
You can't wear out a memory,
but you can reshape it.
Like a rock in your pocket
whose outline is the same in
every measurable dimension
but where reason assures
that you have left traces,
the friction of time and tension
whispering off bits here and there.
You don't think it has changed,
but you know it has.
Painful or joyous, you know the past
made mindful
has a way of taking trifles
and turning them into monuments.