It’s a backwards thing, but why? Is there no feeling of missing what is still to happen? Like there is for what already has. But maybe that’s why. Because it will.

It’s yours but it’s not. Like a thought you can’t remember. It’s there, but not really—memory isn’t the real thing.

It’s so far close. Like an apple in a glass box. To see, not taste; remember not live.

Like her hair and his smile, the wet smell of cider and sound of warmth—and all else that made that day what it was. All else, except of course, that it was, and therefore will not again be.