Sometimes I look at her, and I’m jealous. Because she doesn’t remember.
All that time I was wrapping my arms around myself I thought I was trying to hold her. Maybe I was trying to hold onto what we were.
I’m jealous of her because she’ll never be haunted by what happened to her. What happened to all of us. She can’t remember it.
But she’ll never remember him, either. As many stories as I tell her, they’ll still only be stories to her.
Such an important part of our lives, and she’ll have no memory of him at all.
All that time I was wrapping my arms around myself I thought I was trying to hold her. Maybe I was trying to hold onto what we were.
I’m jealous of her because she’ll never be haunted by what happened to her. What happened to all of us. She can’t remember it.
But she’ll never remember him, either. As many stories as I tell her, they’ll still only be stories to her.
Such an important part of our lives, and she’ll have no memory of him at all.
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Wholly disconnected from anything. It's possible "him" was the child's father, possible he wasn't. No idea what happened to them. I like the way this one sounds when read out loud.
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