By Kokoro Still
Some memories do not speak in words.
They arrive as light—
slipping across the floorboards,
slowing time without asking.
That place was the engawa.
Where light paused.
And where Kokoro paused, too.
A Space That Waited
It wasn’t a room.
It wasn’t outside, either.
The engawa existed in between—
not meant for action, but for pause.
I remember the air there.
The way it held warmth in silence.
The sound of wind against the paper screens.
And the smell of the wood beneath my feet.
We never called it a special place.
But somehow,
everyone’s voice felt quieter there.
The Light That Moved Differently
The light moved slowly there.
Not like the hallway,
not like the yard.
It took its time.
Shadows stretched like memories.
And the sun never rushed.
Some mornings, I would sit there
with nothing in my hands,
watching the dust settle midair—
as if time itself were being folded into the space.
What Was Never Said
I do not remember
what we talked about.
Or if we even did.
But I remember
the feeling of not needing to.
The engawa did not ask for conversation.
It asked for presence.
For listening—
not with ears,
but with whatever in us stays quiet.
The Light That Waited
One morning,
I found myself standing at the edge of the engawa again.
I was older now.
But the light was the same.
Soft, slow, and quiet.
I sat for a while.
Not expecting anything.
And yet,
the stillness I once knew
rose gently around me—
as if it had been there all along.
Not all homes have an engawa.
But all of us
have places where time slows.
Where memory lingers
not in thought,
but in light.
This is where Kokoro waits.
Where the engawa still lingers—
not in form, but in stillness.
Featured image: The image was created by AI (ChatGPT)
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