Written by Ruby Saggers, Editor-in-Chief
Content Warning: Mentions of grief
A fingerprint hangs from my neck. It moves with me, gripping, and I cannot leave without it.
Tennessee Whiskey… Golden Brown… Red Red Wine…
Mind drifts, words wander, but my fingers always find their place – atop a teardrop, all I have left.
Getting older now, though time stands still in your land.
Experience overlaps memory, senses become distant.
Where are you?
Sifting through the hippocampus, swimming in it.
Clutching, clawing, grasping. Looking for something, anything.
Found it. Over your shoulder, falling over, a bump, a laugh. A memory.
More, please. Something to ease the pain. Three years, far too long, and I think your voice is gone.
Tobacco… Stella… Occasional aftershave…
The bus, a middle aged man sitting behind me, familiar… brotherly scents recover.
On the back, your name engraved. Never forget that.
In silence, sometimes, it all comes back. Barbecue, orange skies, flatcap, pacific eyes. A vision.
Daren’t reach out, I know you’re not there. Still, I can see you.
Drifting, wandering, I think I’m forgetting again.
Reaching to my neck for it.
Fingers on the fingerprint. When memory betrays, it is all I have left.