I had a long time to consider the value of memory, and the idea that just because something doesn’t last forever doesn’t mean its worth is diminished. Maybe it was just a rationalization – easier on the soul than mourning what might have been – the life unlived. I honestly don’t know, but I chose to believe in memory. I chose to believe in her. I chose to believe that the bond was never broken and that we carried each other in our hearts. As a secret singularity. She made me a writer. She made me a man.
I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. I don’t know if that’s a good thing, or a bad one. But I will promise you this. Your favorite story, whatever it might be, was written for one reader.