Each of those times acquired weight, acquired significance. It is strange how some memories can grow stronger, become – sometimes – more real than the here and now, while others fade and are lost.
I suppose those particular memories; such as the one of her sitting on the riverbank just watching the river flow, became precious to me. I would take them out of my box of memories as I lay alone on what used to be our bed, examine it, noticing more detail each time, polish it and slip it back into the box of my memories, wrapped in the soft folds of the time we spent together.
Now, though, she is gone and reality seems to be a pale shadow of what it used to be when she was here to light up the days and to bring her own particular warmth to the cold of the nights.
Now, the days seem endless, empty and pointless, while my nights are haunted by the ghosts of the past as they try to steal my precious memories and turn them into the dust of mere dreams.
Sometimes, I wish I could forget, step out into a new day that exists for itself, not merely as a backdrop, a stage set, where those memories play out in front of me, almost close enough to touch and almost real enough to step inside and go back to when time had weight and significance.