Alexa Daskalakis

​The Folds

I didn’t name any of the places. But the memories showed up folded.

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I remember wrapping a comb
in silk the color of cooled tea.
The cloth was square.
My grandmother folded it once,
then again,
then pressed the knot like a seal.
She said gifts should feel
like they’ve already been kept.

—

I remember the stone basin
in the shadow of the pines.
It held water so still
you could forget movement existed.
I washed my hands there before speaking,
even if no one was listening.

—

I remember keeping oranges
under the bed during winter.
They softened slowly,
but I liked the way their weight changed.
When one rotted,
I didn’t tell anyone.

—

I remember how the bread cracked
when it was done.
It was the only sound we waited for.
Not the bell.
Not the voice.
Just that hollow, living break.

—

I remember a woman with salt in her hair.
She handed me a needle
but didn’t say what for.
I used it to hold a shell
against my sleeve
so I could hear the sea
without turning my head.

—

I remember standing at the edge
of a courtyard in Thessaloniki.
The wind lifted one corner
of someone’s prayer.
I didn’t know the language,
but I knew not to step on it.

—

I remember learning to bow
by watching shadows on the floor.
They bowed before I did.
It felt right
to let them go first.

—

I remember writing names
in a ledger with no ink.
The point was not to remember.
It was to move your hand
in the shape
of someone still alive.

—

I remember a hallway
where everyone removed their shoes.
Not because they were told.
Because the silence asked.

—

I remember nothing after that.
But my hands still fold paper
as if it matters
how the corners meet.