Remembering the moment

Fiction, perhaps...

It does me no good now to think of her. But think of her I do.

Funny, isn't it, the things you remember? What I remember is the time we sat to ourselves in the other room, away from the party, and talked.

I've forgotten the words. I only remember the moment. I think that's what we are left with, in the end, moments.

I shouldn't have fallen in love with her. But fall in love I did.

It was subtle at first. One last childhood crush on a kindred spirit. But as the days went by, and the words were exchanged, I looked down and noticed my heart was missing.

Knowing what I know now, I don't think I ever got to know her. I thought I did. But it was superficial, somehow, as if I only got to see what she wanted me to see. She is, I think, a seven-layer salad; get down so far and you discover something unique, something you didn't know was there. Something you're puzzled by; something you hate.

She was beautiful and she was kind. But she was horrible and she was cruel.

I blew my mind over her once. Just sat down and flipped the switch to off on the whole damn world.

After that, distance made it easier. In time, I began to think that the entire 24 month stretch was but a dream.

The memories return from time to time. They appear with a song on the radio, or a movie on television. Or a thought. A rhyme.

I go on about my solitary way, lost in the beautiful eyes of another, or in the promise of the morning dove's sweet sad song.

Somewhere in that lyric I know the love I felt was something I needed at the time, the mechanism from which I gathered my strength to complete this journey.

For her? I don't know. You'd have to ask her what, if anything, I gave to her.

But sometimes, when the night is still young, I think of her. I feel the longing, see the imaginary blinking of a long-diminished green light, and yearn for those days.

Yes. I yearn.