It’s so hard to let go.
Memories I thought would be collected and hidden away like treasure, I find now merely sand slipping through my pinched fingers, dissipating into a passing wind.
I race to try and catch it.
I dash after it, trying to capture even a single grain of its whole, trying to save some semblance of what once was.
And I do.
I pinch my fingers, cup my hands to protect this single grain; this lasting memory—all that I have. My fingers like a barred cage hold tight this single memory. I squeeze so that it can never escape me, so that I’ll never lose it, so that I’ll never forget.
I’ve never felt desperation like this. I’ve never felt fear like this.
And so when I finally open my fingers to see nothing there, that whatever was is no longer, I have to wonder if I squeezed hard enough, whether I fought for it hard enough.
Or if it was that hopeless struggle that made me lose it in the first place.
Suddenly, I feel empty. The truth of my reality dawns: what was is no longer.
But that doesn’t mean it never was.