If Only (The Echo Chronicles)

The Echo Chronicles: Volume 1: Letter 3

Dear Person,

I only have memories- fragments, really, of the time we spent together. There is nothing real anymore, no way to bring you back, just so I can feel your arms around my arms when I’m feeling down, or hear your voice when I need it most.

It was so long ago, that I think there are only some things that I remember. Your spiced smell that I loved so much, and wide smile, and your inability to stop yourself from laughing. The way we knew each other so well, we could mimic each other’s expressions.

I hate it that I can’t face you anymore. I hate it that I can’t talk to you, or confess my thoughts and dreams. You always made me smile, even in the darkest of days, even when you weren’t trying to.

If only you weren’t gone. I would be happy once more. Maybe I would even smile, or talk to somebody. You were my greatest friend, and always will be. No amount of dirt between us will change that, no closed coffin.

I may not remember every part of your face, but I don’t need to. I only know the most important things. That you were my friend, and that I’ll never forget you.

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you…I could walk through my garden forever.” – Lord Alfred Tennyson

Dead (And How We Are All Leaves)

It smells like an aquarium,

The soaked and sodden streets.

My wet shoes squish against the concrete

Like the suction of an octopus’ tentacles.

 

Beating like a steady drum,

The rain comes down hard,

Ripping life from limb,

Never asking, “Must we die?”

 

The red and gold autumn leaves

Now stained with dirt and rain

Lie trampled on the ground,

Tears of hopelessness running down their thin veins

Or is that water?

 

The edges of those fallen soldiers

Curl up, shielding themselves from the heavy feet

Of death.

 

The battlefield runs slick with blood,

Fresh from gaping, open wounds.

People run by, and silver cars speed past

Blissfully unaware of the massacre

That happened on that very street.

 

Can we ignore the cries and anguish of those

Who died for us, before us, and because of us?

Can we lift our heads, and pretend we don’t see

The bodies, the blood, and the pain?

 

They are only leaves, but they are so much more.

They are reminders, and warnings

That someday, we will all die.

But how?

 

When we die, will we be

Just another leaf,

Kicked to the side of the road by angry workers?

 

And will they be angry because we are dead,

Or will they be angry because we are dirty?

Forgetting Is Never A Blessing

Every passing year makes it harder and harder to remember. Childhood friends drift away into nothingness, reduced only to fragments of names, and golden rays of sunshine raining down on my young smiles are lost forever in the dark shadows of my memory. The past becomes obsolete and even though I know someday, none of it will, I keep thinking- no, wishing- that it will all come back to me. The memories, the stories, everything that happened, and everything that didn’t.

I don’t want to forget, because every time I do, I lose a part of myself that hurts when I think about it. Sometimes I don’t even realize it, but when I do, I can’t bring myself to acknowledge that yet another memory has slipped beyond my grasp.

Looking back on old papers, I’ll occasionally find a name, a single word that was messily scribbled in a child’s purple writing. For the next few hours, I’ll simply tear myself apart, searching for some clue that will lead me to the mysterious nameless name. But no matter how hard I look, I won’t find who they were, not because they were insignificant, but because I was young, and because my memory had failed me once again.

I’ve always believed the past is simply a collection of cherished memories, both good and bad, and a reminder of happy moments that we can never reclaim again. That’s true, but it’s also full of things we forgot, and things we made up in their absence.