The Crystal Week

Each one of those moments was crystal in its clarity. Each day shone like some jewel. Each easily taken into the hand to place carefully in the box of memories we kept for those times when we sat together late at night, watching the flames dancing and listening to the tick of the clock. Kept for those times when time doesn’t matter.

That week though, the Crystal Week was the one we always turned to later when times were not so good, to remind us of what once had been and what – maybe – could be again sometime.

Times, though, cannot be recreated, made again. As Heraclites said you can never step in the same river twice, in the intervening period both you and the river change, so in that way we could never go back. All we could do was remember.

Or, at least, so I thought.

Marie always had a secret smile, something I associated with memory. She could – I often thought – remember much more than me: the details, the incidents, sounds, smells, textures. All the time she remembered past times, especially our Crystal Week, she had that smile on her face. I thought it was some trick, something like biting your lip, scratching your head, to help you remember. But that smile was different.

I remember when it all changed. After a fraught week at work, I sat with Marie, watching the flames, talking again about the Crystal Week, remembering. After a moment of watching the flames, I said ‘I wish I could go back there.’

Marie took my hand in hers, smiling that smile. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you back there.’

And she did.