There are these days. They stain our memories. But in a good way. In January, when winter is catching its second breath and the night is as clear as something that just happened. The moon scours the landscape like a spotlight looking for its love.
Or the fall. Mid October. Wading through drifts of dead leaves. An eerie reminder of mortality birthed in a sunset of colors and cast down by time.
It's these days that come to pass, I try to give them meaning. If by no other measure than my own, I worry their fate of being forgotten. So I do something out of my ordinary routine. A bookmark of sorts. Because perhaps I spent that day with you. I fear nothing more than having woken up one day and not remembering you.