The great migrations of the earthtell me that I have nothing to fear. It is not destiny that guides birds in their first journey and return across the skies. They are swept by a wind stronger than their hollow bones, their young hearts.
Which is to say memory is not only the things we have done, the places we have seen, the people we have become. I think of you andI remember a bedroom you will paint white and green, the breakfasts we will skip, the leaky faucet we will have to fix. I remember the weight of your arm at night, the warmth of your breath in the morning, the streaks of gray in your hair.
I do not know the future, its roads of cloud and mist. I remember it.