The Departure

She looked up. The bright, cheery sunlight took her by surprise. "This isn't so bad afterall," she whispered quietly to herself as she carefully laid down a small flower by the dock. This is where she had met her friend for the first time, back when they were both children. "Stupid children," she thought. After all these years, she has come to realize the truth of what happened. Ironically, when she finally found out, the truth did not matter anymore. She was never coming back to this dock again. This was the last time. Silently, she walked back to her car and drove off into the horizon.

Fond Memories.

At first, it's ok to brush it off, pretend that it had never happened. The wound is fresh and all you want to do is to forget. Everything about the scar is despised: its colour, its story and its becoming. Self-hatred for letting it happen and hatred towards the one who did this to you. You want to move on and start over.

Then one day, after all's forgotten, you wake up and wonder what happened? The anger has died down. The scar taught a lesson. What about him? Does he remember? Has he forgotten too? Does his scar pain him as much? Memories begin to flood your mind. Somehow, they are the good ones: the first glance, the first arguement, the first smile, the first touch. What happened is in the past; it should be cherished. Thinking about the good times in the past has made you treasure what you have now even more. You have forgiven the scar.

"Bittersweet memories, that is all I'm taking with me. "