I saw an old photo the other day. I stumbled on it somewhere.
It was her.
There was no escaping it. The image was sharp, focused.
And I remembered.
These were not hazy memories obscured by a brain trying to save me from myself. Not fleeting thoughts flashing like fireflies in the darkness.
No.
I remembered.
Clear memories that slashed me like a saber.
It was her.
And me. I’m in the picture, too.
Smiling. Both of us smiling. My arm draped around her shoulders. Her body, leaning in, tucked into mine.
It was so long ago.
The old me, the now me… wonders… how did that love die? How does any love die? What becomes of those moments after you arrive at the point you can no longer speak comfortably? Can barely look each other in the eye?
It’s times like this I start to remember every stupid thing I ever said. Jeezus. The list is endless.
I missed her for so long. I still miss her.
When I remember.
When I stumble on old photos. When I hear a certain song. Or when the scent of a certain flower finds me.
Lovers in love, eyeing eternity with each other, without asking... how long is forever?
As I return to the present and feel my fingers gripping the old photo, it’s not as bad as it first seemed. The ending was sad, and the aftermath was… difficult. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be alive.
But that moment, in the photo…
I remember.
Both of us smiling. My arm draped around her shoulders. Her body, leaning in, tucked into mine.
When I think about it, really think about it, I treasure it.
It was a moment to die for.
Or, maybe, a moment to live for.
