Eight years

It has been eight years since my beloved died, and yet it seems like yesterday we were in each other's arms. It has been longer since I've spoken to her, and yet I remember her voice vividly. Although it has been even longer since I saw her, her mannerisms stay with me still.

I fear that someday I'll forget, someday my memory of her will fade to the point where she is only a dream, only a whisper of who she once was. And then, what really was won't be, and her spark will have been extinguished. I know this is irrational; I know that I will remember her, even if the tone of her voice goes away, even if the curve of her cheek goes away. I know I'll remember the security I felt with her, the one-ness I experienced with her.