Ghosts & Memory | Somepiphany

All The Epiphanies
Just Penned

XXV. The Men Who Built the Sky.

"They didn’t save me. Not in the way that word is usually meant. But they gave me back the morning. A reason to pull the blinds. To let the light in."

Just Penned

Charlene Iris

Aug 75 min read

XXIII. To Old Friends, Part II: Love, Let Go.

A bouquet split in half. A bee whispers at the edge of goodbye. Petals fall into dinner, and still, she leaves gently, like something wild remembering how to bloom.

Just Penned

Charlene Iris

Jul 293 min read

XIX. Things I Don't Understand: "Keys"(Part II).

I’ve never quite understood keys. Or how something so small can decide if you’re allowed back in. In "Keys", part of the "Things I Don’t Understand" series, I try to unlock a door. The door has thoughts. The key has memory. And apparently, I have something to answer for.

Charlene Iris

Jul 124 min read

IX. To Old Friends, Part I: Memory.

I don’t reach for the past, but it finds me. Like an unsent note in a jacket pocket, still folded. Still warm.

Charlene Iris

Apr 112 min read

VII. The Woman at Union Station.

She turned back for me. Helped me carry what I couldn’t. A quiet kindness, in the chaos, that I’ll never forget.

Charlene Iris

Apr 94 min read

V. Attached to Some Ducks.

A quiet ritual. Some winter ducks. I didn’t mean to get emotionally attached. But I did. And then they were gone.

Charlene Iris

Apr 62 min read

Musings

Wander through the dusk-lit rooms of SomEpiphany.
A quiet archive: the tender, the tangled, the mildly ridiculous—fragments of life that insisted on being remembered.

XXV. The Men Who Built the Sky.

XXIII. To Old Friends, Part II: Love, Let Go.

XIX. Things I Don't Understand: "Keys"(Part II).

IX. To Old Friends, Part I: Memory.

VII. The Woman at Union Station.

V. Attached to Some Ducks.

Musings

Wander through the dusk-lit rooms of SomEpiphany. A quiet archive: the tender, the tangled, the mildly ridiculous—fragments of life that insisted on being remembered.

Contact

Wander through the dusk-lit rooms of SomEpiphany.
A quiet archive: the tender, the tangled, the mildly ridiculous—fragments of life that insisted on being remembered.