Memory

I got an e-mail today that's got me brooding again. About the past. About a lot of things.

"Please tell me you remember this," the note said. Oh, I remember. I remember more than I should, if I were to be honest. It's as though I preserved every single moment and I just keep replaying and replaying ... like a tape that keeps flipping over. And over. And over.

I don't want to forget. I don't want to be the only one who remembers, either. I don't want time to keep passing, taking me further away and piling so many weighty days on my shoulders. It tamps down the ache. But I find myself fighting the nostalgia -- I don't want my memory to be soft and blurry around the edges. I want it sharp, raw, immediate.