The Remains of the Day

I think in the end, you always lose the details. Eventually at least, you won’t remember the specific blue of his eyes or the exact scent of his hair. You won’t be able to immediately recall the tiny scar on the bottom of his chin, the little white crescent moon that you used to trace with your finger when you were laying in his arms. It will take you a moment to conjure the curve of his smile, or the weight of his gaze.
You’ll be reminded though, at some point.
You’ll find a box of old pictures, you’ll run into him on the street, and the remembering will feel like a gun shot in your stomach. There will be a painful sort of chill that washes over you, some kind of wave that seems to whisper “Oh…that’s right. That’s what I lost” as it passes.
You know that you’ve healed and your heart has moved on, when the pain is followed by another voice that says it’s OK, you’re OK, and this isn’t a wound you need to keep licking.
You’ll know you’re all better when the collision of disappointment and regret, is for the first time cushioned by the knowledge that if life does nothing else, it does at the very least go on.