A flicker—
not a flame, not a fire,
just a brief light
like the TV skipping
to a memory you didn't know you stored.
He rises—
legs older now,
but the lift is there,
the air still parts for him like it used to.
You blink,
and there it is—
a dunk not for the scoreboard,
but for the soul.
It's vintage,
like that one record your dad played
on Sunday mornings.
Crackles and all.
A flicker—
Derrick Rose,
eyes glassy,
fifty points on a night
nobody asked for it—
but needed it anyway.
Not for the playoffs,
but for the past.
For the knees that gave,
and the heart that never did.
A flicker—
a moment where time folds,
and you are watching someone
be who they were
just long enough
to remember who they are.
hope.
Like seeing your childhood bedroom again—
same posters,
same paint,
but your hands are bigger now.
The body breaks.
But soul?
It flickers on.
Not to stay—
just enough to remind.
A ghost of greatness,
alive in a second,
then gone again.
Fleeting.
Beautiful.
Still there.
Flicker.
