by Leon Jackson Davenport
What will I remember about you, now that the fire of our love has burned out and the embers are cold? I will remember only the good times; when we walked in a field blooming with sun yellow daisies; the winter picnic at the beach (we had to stop on the way home for a snifter of cognac, to quiet the deep chill in our bones); our trip to D.C.; your smile and wit and finding someone that appreciated Kurt Vonnegut as much as I. You, I fear, will remember only the bad; our arguments and revelations (“...it will be difficult,” you said, “but yes, I can love a Cubs fan...”). I am bewildered as to how someone that professed to love me more than her own life could become a stranger - I’ve come to believe our love wasn’t real, it was only a mist of memories that disappeared, like you from my bed, when the sun came up. Today, when I saw you exchange a kiss with an old, ex-friend, I understood. For you the moment was real, it was only the moment, no future or past, only the now, where you live: no matter, I’ll keep the memories, I’ll cherish the past, because for me that made it real.
Leon Jackson Davenport, an occasional short story writer, lives in New Jersey but enjoys thinking about being somewhere else. He is the author of R.L. Leonard, Deceased.