What Only Remains

Just the little things. They're all that's left now. And the memories that jump up and bite you anywhere, anytime.

You did so many things together; how cruel is fate that only you now remember in pain, whereas she bounces happily through her new life, trampling all that passed between you as if none of it ever happened -- or rather as if it were not sacred ground but merely dirt, at last.

That's how it is with new love. You have to self-censor a lot, lest the new partner discover how many memories of your ex- still haunt your current experiences together, for now. Not forever, you hope, though you can't be sure. Just once or twice going to the same places, doing the same things, but now with your new love, and the connections to the old will wither away like dried fruit, hanging onto winter's naked branches, off-gassing.

Yes, you have to tell lies, even if only of omission. Funny thing is there is someone who knows all of this and that is your ex-. The new love never will know what he doesn't know, which may be for the best for all concerned. But, oh, what an encyclopedia of detail could be disclosed by the one left behind!

Little things, almost invisible to the untrained eye, and so unexpected.

Even this forgettable street in a distant place, named with only the first letter of her name. You walked it again, realizing as you did so that the only other time on this earth you did so, she was at your side.

Your hand curled around her waist; you two took your time. It all comes back to you now. It was a warm season then; now it is bitter cold. You were together then, innocent of what was soon come to pass; now, you are more alone than if she had died.

The same route to the same store, crossing the street with the first letter of her name as its name at the same place you crossed it with her -- jaywalked it actually. She would remember none of this; it is so trivial that you probably wouldn't either, except memories are all you have left now, so your brain, from its emotional storehouse, conjures them one by one, forcing you to relive your times together, now with a searching mind.

When did you begin to lose her? How much was she really yours on that other time together on this street, not very long ago in the scheme of things? What force was already at work within her that she could leave you barely weeks later and immediately fall for someone new? What kind of signs did you miss? What was it that you could have stopped if only you'd known? What could you have said to reassure her, to prevent all of this horror?

Your memory traces the path to the store -- yes, you both stepped here, between that plant and that young tree, then followed that walkway. Then, as now, there was a girl outside smoking, perhaps the same clerk on her same break, who knows?

In the same door, down the same aisles, maybe you even bought the same item, but your body memory cares nothing about that detail.

As you retrace your steps out of the store and back to the street and on to your destination, she is silently by your side. Her hand is now around your waist, she is smiling and telling you a story.

It is a story about love -- you both talked a lot about love for four years together -- and about how a woman from far away came to these shores and met a man here and came to love him and they built a life together and now they would grow old together.

It was a very satisfying story, you smile at the memory.

But there's only one problem.

It wasn't a true story. All that remains is the dirt beneath your shoes.

-30-