The Day We Remember Differently

I remember the rush, the sweat,

the balancing act in a tiny train bathroom.

Linen suits and bare feet,

a broken subway and a forced march

through New York's unforgiving streets.

I remember worry dripping

down my neck with the sweat,

frizzing my hair like my fraying nerves.

The clock ticking, stomachs empty,

feet tripping over luggage and strangers.

I remember plastering on a smile,

hiding exhaustion behind pride

as my boys took the stage,

their resilience a quiet marvel

in the wake of our chaotic journey.

But they—

they remember the music,

the flawless duet they played,

a sea of other young musicians,

and their grandparents' beaming faces.

In their memory, there is no rush,

no sweat, no worry.

Just triumph and joy,

the day crystallized in perfect notes

and accomplishment.

How curious, the stories we carry,

the moments we choose to hold.

My children, unknowing teachers,

show me a different way to remember:

to let go of the hard, the worry, the sweat,

to hold onto the beauty, the triumph, the love.

They remind me, in their innocent wisdom,

that joy outshines struggle,

that achievement eclipses chaos.

Perhaps this is the truest resilience—

to see the good, to remember the light.

In their memories, they show me

how to rewrite my own.