by Jennifer Freya Helgeson
First, the names loosen—
not all at once,
but like buttons
working themselves free
in the dark.
Then the faces blur
at their edges,
as if memory were water
and you were learning
to look through it.
I kept a record—
dates, small details,
the color of a shirt
you wore one afternoon
when nothing happened.
But absence edits carefully.
It removes the center first,
leaving only a perimeter
of almosts.
Now, when I call you back
into the room,
you arrive incomplete—
a voice without echo,
a gesture missing
its reason.
Still, I write it down:
this vanishing
that insists on being seen.
***
Jennifer Freya Helgeson’s creative writing explores themes of memory, loss, nature, and human resilience. She has authored several peer-reviewed publications, co-edited textbooks, and published in several media outlets. Jennifer has a poetry chapter book forthcoming (early 2027, Finishing Line Press). When she’s not writing, Jennifer enjoys gardening, dancing, and spending meaningful time with her loved ones. Follow her @jfhelgeson on Instagram.
