There were only moments.

Moments I’d remember but forget.

Stories read aloud.

The sound of her voice.

Music.

I know there was music. There had to be music.

 

I knew I’d know her voice anywhere.

Because I’d known it there.

There was she, then we, then

Just me.

 

 I know those moments existed. I cannot prove it, but I know it.

Sure as I know that my heart beats, or the world is round, or the moon controls the tide. Or maybe in a different way than that, but the point is I know it.

No matter how much my heart, in some maybe misguided mode of self-protection, preservation, tells my brain, my body, to bury it all.

They, I,  scream back in protest.

It happened.

I know.

 

That was in the before, and there was most definitely a before.

That was what I would hold inside.

In some silent ever-anticipation of the after.

 

I always thought there would be an after. Like a couple that splits up on prom night, goes their separate ways, then crosses paths, circles back to each other decades later.

Long lost, then found.

Maybe that’s what I thought it would be, or maybe I never thought about it.

Of course I thought about it.

 

I thought one day I’d have that chance.

I thought we were tethered.

Destined.

To meet.

To be happy. Or angry. Or sad.

To have her apologize, to cry in her arms.

Or to slam the phone down on her. Throw it against the wall. Watch it shatter into a thousand pieces.

Like me.

 

What I never thought though, not for one moment, not for one breath, was that she was dead. That I’d find a grave.

Less than a grave.

Ashes.

 

I always thought there was time.

For that one moment in time.

I always thought I’d have the chance to say I miss you or fuck off or even just hello.

 

Moments.

Moments I lost.

Moments I never got.