The sum of all my yesterdays is all I have. No, that is not true, for they do not form a solidified whole. The patchwork of yesterdays flaps about in the wind.

There is always a new song. Old sounds, altered lyrics. Same rhythm, syncopated rhythm, none. The silence stretches. It is fluid like the yesterdays that come in waves.

I wait, watching for yesterday’s new narrative. Where is it? It is here. Or soon is. It will come to shore. A distant drum. The beat says yes, the voice will tell a story.

When? There is something in the wind.

©2019 Allison Wright
[104 words. I am out of practice. That was longer than 5+5 minutes.]