Once we are born; we live ‘til we die. On our tombstones our entire eternity is represented by a short line, one shorter than our bony pinky fingers. And that’s it. We become one of many. A story that has met it’s ending and it’s persistent footprint is finally washed off the shore. The heartbreak and happiness, the tears and laughter, forgotten. It’s inevitable. Whether the end is tomorrow or in sixty years, whether by choice or a series of unfortunate events; it will end. But I find comfort to know that we will be remembered by the chosen few. Not who we chose, but were chosen themselves. We become a secret worth space in their mind. We become a treasured frozen memory that will live ‘til they become that to another. We become a story etched away in the back of someone’s mind like young lovers scratching away at a worn tree trunk. Initials that we will always remain, always a part of someone else like an invisible scar that fades but never disappears.

-a.s.b