I remember October. Your coat on the back of my chair. Rain gathering against the window. You said something I couldn’t hear— or perhaps I chose not to. I remember thinking there would be another evening. I remember April. You turned when I said your name. There was sunlight on one side of your face. You smiled as though we’d known each other longer than we had. I remember thinking this must be the beginning. I keep returning to the last day. I keep returning to the first. You are walking away. You are walking toward me. I almost call your name. I almost hear it. Where are you when you remember me? Somewhere you haven’t left yet. What am I wearing? The coat you forgot that autumn. Where are you when you remember me? Under a tree that was still in bloom. Am I saying goodbye? No. You haven’t even said hello. Sometimes I remember your hand before you touched mine. The space between us was so small I thought it couldn’t possibly matter. I didn’t know a few inches could become years. Sometimes I remember your hand after you let go. The space between us was so small I could still feel your warmth. I didn’t know a few seconds could become forever. If I could enter your memory— You would find me at the door. Would you know me? Immediately. Would you stay? I did. No… You stayed in the wrong memory. Where are you when you remember us? Before we learned that love could end. Can you see me? Almost. Can you reach me? Almost. Then why are we still so far apart? Because you remember the ending— And you remember— the beginning. I was there. I was there. There.
