The Return

by Rachel Harrison

We have our stories. Denial is fruitless. If one of our memories fails, the rest of us will pool ours together. We’re witnesses to one another’s triumphs and destruction. We’re eager to reminisce, though we each have our own version of events.

You can’t erase your past when there are pieces of it scattered inside other people.

I cried but not because of him. I cried for what I had sacrificed and for how long and because if I had to do it over again, I would make the same choice, even though it was the wrong one. That scared me. I cried for the worry that I would never love anyone like that again or, if I did, what I would do for that love. What I would be willing to give up. Or maybe it would be different. Maybe no one else would inspire me to be so stupid. Maybe I’d exhausted passion. Maybe I’d go on to live a boring, lonely, practical life. Maybe this was it, my only chance, or maybe it wasn’t, but it ruined me. Maybe I was numb.