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Fingerprints

She could still feel the fingerprints on the photograph – the photograph of that moment, that series of moments that she will never get back. The picture was a snapshot of them, back then, the past. Whispering, now what’s with that mask?
Her mind is filled with doubt, distress, as she tries to sort out the mess. The room, filled with boxes almost ceiling high. She shoves out the door into the liquid needles falling from the sky. Her throat is scratched, her mind disabled; but she is strong enough to see the opening above. The light tunnel calls to her, as her body becomes vapor and dissolves into thin air.
The tunnel is heaven, her mind is stolen. She doesn’t think, just feels. Her senses spring alive as she turns forward her watch.
The broken splinters of glass, along with the unsent letters, burned candles, and the used life are left in her bedside table, locked away forever. A smile forms at this thought, her mind replaced by sincerity, raw nature, and what she’s been waiting for. The photograph is permanently gone, but imprinted in her mind, impossible to forget, for it is what has made her what she is today.

The fingerprints sign the memory away, before she remembers it one last time…

I could still feel the fingerprints on the photograph – the photograph of that moment, that series of moments that I will never get back, but use as fuel to propel myself through the long, winding tunnel in the sky. All I can do is laugh, because this wasn’t my plan, but the plan of all the memories locked and stashed away in my bedside table. Because that was just one piece of my life, and there are many more awaiting. So I am thankful – thankful for all things lost, all things gained, and all things lived. Because they are all savored and remembered from the day they are born and created, to the day the tunnel ends.
They were life, and that’s more than I can ask for.




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