She couldn’t help but remember. Oh, how she longed not to, but fear is a fickle friend - unfriendly and far too hopeful.
She read something once that said “Our brains deliberately make us forget things, to prevent insanity.” She was certain her brain didn’t get the message. Was it a burden or a gift to remember the color of his eyes as if they still burned through her?
The unfriendly part about this fickle friend is that while it chooses to remember the warm hands, smell of clean hair, and the first “I love you,” it also remembers the pillow stained tears, doors slamming, and the rush he left her heart in when he said “goodbye.” Oh, and it wasn’t just him. Every painful essence of the past twenty-four years was painted thick on her memory.
Memory, oh fickle friend of thee.
Regardless, it was there.
She wondered how often she crossed their mind. Not in an egotistical way, she could truly care less, but in the little moments where one last track of where they were. In the remedial things where unconscious thought takes over. Do they remember the type of coffee she used to drink, or the books she used to bury herself in?
Muscle memory of her name on their tongue, maybe. She wondered how often she crossed their mind in the simplest of ways, but maybe she didn’t really want to know. Maybe, these untethered thoughts should just be - lingering for our pleasure and pain when ever memory does its thing.