Wounded memories

I’m holding on to these memories like a child cupping a wounded bird. Not too tight as to cause it further injury, but not too loose so it can wriggle free. It shouldn’t be flying just yet.

My shaking hands hold them near my chest, so if they vainly attempt an escape, I’ll be able to pull them closer yet. Feel the flutter of tiny wings and the frantic heartbeat of a frightened soul. It takes so much to keep them safe. To keep them from harming themselves. But even if they had the strength, I lack it to ever let them go.