That place we called home
I remember fewer and fewer details of the life we shared. Perhaps I've spent so much time evoking that past that our story has become a generic narrative. The more human details, the smell of the grass at your grandfather's ranch, the way you shook hands, the line of your hair and the expressions in your eyes, your hugs and your scent, for instance, I don't remember them as I used to. The passage of time has been distorting the reality we shared. The problem isn't what I've forgotten; it's the absence you've in what I do remember. Your death filled my surroundings with nostalgia, and I've learned to live that life, where I still revisit the corners where you're stored.
The anxiety I get from the idea of forgetting you is so overwhelming that I return to the house where we grew up. It would surely seem like an unfamiliar place filled with strange nuances to you. Maybe you'd feel that our street is like a child's mouth, and the old houses have disappeared like baby teeth, making way for new ones that are taking both our living space and the memory of our existence. The sidewalk where we learned to ride a bike now watches me pass by like a stranger. The cracked pavement has me thinking about the undeniable passage of time. I don't really know why I came back, maybe to search for the truth hidden in my lies, perhaps to clear the fog that has always surrounded my truths. I only know that I'm still here, and you are not completely gone.