Liquid Light
Preface
There are moments in childhood that pass without explanation. Nothing dramatic happens; the day simply settles around a small gesture, a movement through a room, a change in the light.
Only much later does the mind recognise what was present in that ordinary hour—how certain sensations become the quiet vessels of memory.
This poem begins there.
Liquid Light On her dresser, taller than my hand, glass holding the afternoon. Sunlight entered, settled there, turned the liquid amber— as though warmth had found a place to remain. I learned its meaning before language did. When she reached for it, the room shifted. Drawers opened. Fabric moved. Time gathered toward departure. I hovered, not asking, circling the edge of where she stood. One press. A brief cloud suspended between us. It fell lightly— her wrist, the air, sometimes on me. The scent— warm, then brighter. The day itself leaned nearer. She laughed, bent down, left a kiss or fingers at my ribs until breath broke into sound. I believed then that leaving was temporary, that sunlight returned everything it touched. Outside, the garden held its colour. Windows stayed open. Nothing resisted the hour. The perfume faded slowly, working into skin, into clothing, into rooms that continued after she was gone. I did not understand what was being given— how scent learns memory, how warmth survives without the body that carried it. Now, when light passes through glass, it stops me. Not grief. Not even longing. The sudden knowledge that I once stood inside a moment already becoming what remains. And somewhere in the day, without warning, the air changes— briefly brightened, as if she has just passed through on her way elsewhere, leaving enough behind to recognise her without turning.
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End Note
Memory rarely returns as a complete story. More often it arrives through small disturbances in the present: light passing through glass, a change in the air, the sudden persistence of a scent.
What once seemed ordinary becomes legible only later. The moment itself is gone, yet something of its atmosphere remains—carried forward in ways we do not immediately recognise.
Perhaps this is how presence continues: not in the event, but in the subtle alterations it leaves behind.
Hey Lawrie, good evening.Looks like you’ve started writing again. I’ve been looking forward to reading your poems.When I first read Liquid Light, the first few times I thought it was a nostalgic memory about you and your mother (or maybe your grandmother). Or maybe even a slightly spiritual kind of experience — sorry if that’s a bit off the mark.But as I kept reading it again and again, I started to feel there was something deeper going on.In my case, maybe because of my personality or the kind of work I do, I don’t usually have memories coming back through smell. But the idea that even after someone is gone, their memory or presence can still remain — that feeling came across in a really fresh way to me.Another thing I noticed is that you never directly say you’re sad or nostalgic, or really talk about your own emotions. And yet somehow the poem still stays very strongly in the heart. I found that really interesting. Anyway…
It feels like the memory circles around the light offering recognition, the subtle moment that perhaps the grief changed, or transformed.
The piece becomes visceral with scent. The memory reveals itself and tugs the readers heart strings.