Some days, it is very difficult having a memory. She’s gone. She no longer remembers. She’s elsewhere. But I remain. I remember. I am here.

The sky presses down with its own specific clarity, that density of turbulence and change, of light turning and receding all the time ever. It makes it difficult to have eyes. To see. To recognize always this act of seeing, how I fail to converge with the horizon, am still.

The most perfect memories are unremembered. The most perfect memories are the ones we forgot we have. I would like to lock you away in a cedar chest somewhere warm and forget you there.

“Barrow. Flower. Bulldozed. Sun.”

What terrifically painful keys to carry, to have let loose in the wind.

I stand up as I uncover this. I cover my face and cry.

 

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