The Memory Eraser

Forgetting

I was starting to forget. I couldn't call his face to mind immediately; I had to look at a picture. I was starting to forget his citrus and lavender scent; it was fading from his clothes. I was starting to forget the way way his sandy hair fell in front of his eyes; how he flicked it back. I was starting to forget our picnics at the oak tree. I was starting to forget that night where it rained and we didn't have jackets, and he kissed me right as the crescent moon poked through a gap in the clouds. I was starting to forget the way he tucked my hair behind my ears; how he looked at me when he thought I was asleep. The memories were so distant, and they got farther away by the second. I hated myself for it.

It was weeks before I got around to opening that box again. His scent was gone from his clothes by then. I used his chapstick until it ran out. His keys and wallet sat untouched on the kitchen counter for days. And then there was that little box. It sat, closed, on my dresser for two nights before I worked up the courage to open it. 

It was exactly one month after he was killed when I sat down in his old favorite chair with that little box. I knew exactly what it contained. I hoped I was right, but I knew being right would break my heart.

I took a deep breath and before I could change my mind, I swung the lid up.

It held exactly what I'd expected. A simple diamond ring on a silver band sat in the case. It was dazzling and beautiful. I broke down in tears, wishing I could have told him how much I loved him again. Wishing I could have accepted his proposal. Wishing I could have married him. Wishing I could have had a family with him. This ring symbolized everything I could never have. I slipped it onto my ring finger. The cold metal seemed to bit into my skin. It felt good. When I looked at it, all the memories came rushing back, just for a second. I would never forget him.