Some days, when the skies turn into dark, steely greys, and the rain pours down like the Gods are weeping, I make an effort to pull out the dusty box in the back of my closet. Within it, are memories that are better off forgotten. Everyone who has ever been a part of them, think that these ancient artifacts have been long destroyed, reduced to rubble, burned in fires too bright and strong to survive. However, these items, these photos, these ancient pieces from another era, another time, another life, are reminders of just how far I’ve come. I can pull out a hoodie, deep red, the colour of my blood on my sheets after you left and wrap myself in it to find comfort from the storm raging outside my window. You see, these memories are some things that may be better off erased and destroyed, but every once in a while, when the fragility of life is made apparent, you need to be able to pull out a dusty box, filled with belongings of your seventeen year old self, young and in love, fearlessly taking on and navigating the bumpy roads, of holding two lives in your hands, and working tirelessly to blend them together. You’ll fall in love again, maybe you already have, but you will never fall in love for the very first time again, and it’s important to physically be able to hold that too hot summer in your hands; where the weather only allowed you to sit by the water with the air conditioning on full blast, playing songs on a hand burned CD, talking about the future like you had a clue of what it would bring. It’s important to remember what being naïve and infinite was like. It’s important to be able to remember him. It’s important to let yourself remember him.
