There were times, like the time she walked naked across a sun-filled bedroom, when I told myself that this was something I must remember. Already, I was thinking of the future and how those far-away empty days could be filled by memories. I knew then that life only ever makes any sense when we look back on it, if we are lucky.
Usually, of course, life never makes any sense. It has no narrative, it has no structure. Usually life is little more than a series of accidents: one damn thing after another.
Back then, though, I knew that there were times that were worth remembering. That way she would look up at me from under her half-closed eyelids whenever I said something she thought was stupid. She could make me regret my clumsiness of thought and speech with just a glance. She taught me the wisdom of silence and the importance of thinking instead of speaking.
She taught me how to hold her and how to let go. When to leave her alone as she sauntered along the sea’s edge the waves lapping over her bare feet as she stared off into distances I could not see.
Not only that, when she went away she taught me all I needed to know about the importance of memories and how to understand loss.
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