Impossible to Forget

Impossible to Forget

By Annette Camp 

September 7, 2026

Lake Skadar was a

sheet of water stitched

together with lily pads.

Lotus blossoms rose.

Gold with endless green,

as dragonflies flickered.

Here. There. Gone.

Large pelicans and

colorful ducks made

their quiet paths

through the water,

while magpies crossed

the sky in quick bursts

of black and white.

Several blue herons stood

patiently motionless

at the edge of the marsh.

Then, with a calm

authority, they each

glided over the

shimmering water.

Among the weathered

boats, the great lake

reflected the sky.

Not far away a man

with his eyes closed,

slept peacefully and

swayed in a hammock.

Cows grazed on patches

of land and their presence

is a reminder that this

wild landscape is also

a place where people

have lived beside nature 

for generations. 

For an hour, my world

felt vastly unhurried. 

The lake was not a place

to visit, but a place to

quietly witness beauty

and come alive

in the moment.

I was exactly where

I needed to be,

exploring this

sun-kissed day.

It's forever written 

into the landscape 

of my memory.

A lasting

imprint 

on my soul.

Impossible

to forget.

Hugged and Heard

Hugged and Heard 

By Annette Camp 

May 6, 2026

Before words assemble themselves,

arms arrive. Not to fix.

Just a chosen gesture.

There is silence. Not sentences.

Being held does not mean

being contained.

I am open. Made wider.

My voice is received.

My words invited this.

There is clarity in

this moment: Love.

And something shifts.

Letting my words exist

became an invitation.

My honesty was met

with understanding.

Willingness on my part

to place my truth where

others could see it with

unmistakable care.

I feel change take root

beneath my skin.

Open to what

continues to unfold.

I stay with the

stillness of this

moment feeling

hugged and heard.

The Weight of the Wedding Ring

For those of you who know my story, I finally got the words to express what I felt that day. For those who do not know, I came out as a lesbian at 16 years old. At 23, I found myself without a home and a guy who asked me 3 times to marry him. At that time, I gave in, believing I didn't have another option. The poem explains my feelings on the day of my wedding to a man I barely knew.

The Weight of the Wedding Ring 

By Annette Camp

May 1, 2026

I stand at the door before the ceremony.

My mother asks, "Why the tears?"

I dare not say they are the release

of what I do not speak.

My words have already been decided.

I do not want myself on the stage.

Others rise around me.

Their faces blur.

Expectation pulls at my heart

as the tears continue to flow.

Inside myself, I keep asking,

"What are you doing?"

I walk forward carefully as though

the floor might give way beneath me.

My knees weaken with every step.

My heart is heavy.

My terror is hidden.

My doubts continue without rest.

I think about the permanence

of this one act.

Marriage feels like a narrow bridge

everyone told me to cross.

A husband.

Children.

A proper home arranged

beneath God's approval.

The altar waits for my approach.

The congregation listens

to words I cannot hear anymore.

The room feels distant from my body.

My bouquet trembles in my hands.

When the vows begin,

my chest tightens so violently

I think I might faint

before the words are finished.

Then the ring.

Gold shining.

Heavy beyond proportion.

The moment it touches my finger

it slips from my hand.

I want to say no.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just one honest word

finally allowed to breathe.

Denial is not holy.

Yet, I am told submission is.

Eyes are watching.

Cameras are rolling.

Someone retrieves the ring.

So I swallow the word

that burns all the way down.

I let him slide the band

onto my finger where the

metal settles like the

closing of a gate.

I stand there silently

as everyone rises in celebration.

I hide my grief and wonder

if God can feel the weight

of the wedding ring.

What Remains in the Stillness

What Remains in the Stillness 

By Annette Camp

February 20, 2026

Grief arrived quietly, in stillness,

in the absence of familiar sounds.

No soft padding across the floor.

No warm weight leaning into my side.

Yet, I felt — I am here.

This place feels wider than before.

Corners echo.

A hand still reaches down

out of habit,

searching for fur that is no longer here.

Love does not vanish when a body does.

It lingers in doorframes scratched by joy.

In the worn patch of carpet by the window.

In the leash hanging like a question

by the door.

Waking up sobbing.

The pillow soaked.

Shoulders wet.

Tears streaming down.

The night has wrung something out—

not the love,

never the love.

Grief is love with nowhere to land.

So it moves through the body instead.

A tide that rises without asking,

that leaves salt on your skin.

A remembrance carried of a companion

through seasons of ordinary miracles.

Rain walks.

Shared glances.

The steady comfort of breathing in sync.

And in the end,

something heavier is carried:

the courage to let go

so suffering will not stay.

That is love too.

Healing does not mean forgetting.

It means speaking the name

without your voice breaking in two.

It means smiling at the memory

of muddy paws and reckless joy.

It means understanding

that the bond has changed shape,

not disappeared.

Now in the waking,

there are mornings with fewer tears.

There is space on the side, yes,

but also, gratitude.

The ache has softened

into something almost warm.

A quiet companionship of memory.

And somewhere inside

the love still runs.

Tail high.

Heart open.

Memories 

that were shared.

Real.

Good.

And always belonging to me.