A strike of the match, white heat and the memories begin to burn.
Our arms flung around each other’s shoulders, smiles as wide as the silence that is now between us, melt away in the discolored photo. Your slanted hand-writing disintegrates as edges of letters blacken and curl and with each memory I feed to the fire, I feel a release.
I finally got the last word.
As you grasp to remember where your keys are, the names of your grandchildren, why a strange woman follows you around with post-it notes, I scatter the ashes of my memory from a third floor balcony. And leave behind the bubbled bits of film in a tiny camping grill that will be forgotten during the winter.