It was her perfume that I remembered most though I had forgotten its name eons ago. Just like the texture of her skin – forgotten. Her name Ealish, or was it Elaine? That too was forgotten. These were mere facts like the day of the week or the meal we shared. They were just supporting evidence, there to prop up the important. By themselves they were trivial and not important. What I remember most was her love of music.

For decades I saw her reflection in the face of every stranger. The hint of lavender in her eyes and the way took in the universe around her. That day, that pivotal day, I fell into those lavender eyes as if they were tropical lagoons. Had time not intervened, I surely would be there today. When she looked at me across the room I felt myself falling, ever falling and the closer I got the faster I wanted to go, to be captured, enveloped, wrapped into, around, and absorbed by her eyes. I remember her eyes.

More memories awake, as if a rote action triggers long forgotten images. It’s as if the act of tying your shoes could trigger the memory of everywhere you had walked. Her hair was all medusa wild and coal black absorbing all yet reflecting soft and gentle. Her springy shoulder length hair danced in rhythmic back beats as she moved ever so slightly in any direction. Her hair was itself alive, both a part of her and alone – an entity living its own unique life. Ah, I remember her hair.

All else has been taken from me, here near the end. There are tubes and bed sheets as lead heavy as any granite weight. I hear muffled voices, yet the only thing I really hear is her laughter and it calls to me like Odysseus’s Sirens.

I remember her perfume.

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