I don't remember her.
I did, once. I remembered what she wore for our third date.
I remembered how she touched me, and I touched her.
I remembered what made her cry, and what made her smile.
I remembered everything.
But memories fade. Present becomes past,
and all we have is an image of what was.
And when that image fades, we take an image of the image. And so on, and so on.
I have no more memories, only memories of remembering the memories.
Errors creep in. Details become blurred.
And though I achingly, lovingly restore the memories every time I resurrect them, like works of art exposed to too many fingerprints,
I can no longer trust them to be true to the original.
My memories of her are a story, passed down over time from one generation of myself to the next.
The highlights are highlighted, the best parts preserved, the worst abandoned.
They are not the truth. They are a myth, preserving more message than meaning.
I think that if I remembered everything the way it was, I would no longer want to.
No, it is better this way.
Memories are meant to fade. If they didn't,
we wouldn't have any at all.