by • October 10, 2018 • Flash FictionComments (0)

Now and Then

Why can’t I remember that final gift you gave me? I can recall the box and its wrappings perfectly, but the contents have escaped my memory, leaving only the shadow of its interior.

If I tighten my mind with effort to recall or flatten my psyche out to its furthest extent, I cannot recollect what it was. And the more I try, the more details that seem to escape me: The perfume you wore, what food we were served on our first meeting, the name of the street you lived on. Even the color of your eyes. Each of these things is drawn into the darkness of the box you left as I search my memory for its contents.

Did you give me a gift? Or leave me with a trap? Did we know each before this and you removed yourself prior to what I remember as our first meeting? How many times have we done this?

See the author’s published work here.

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