an act of preservation

I saved all your letters. I once thought about throwing them out in a fit of rage, from a hunger for destruction and a desire to forget. I'm glad I didn't yield to that. Years later, looking back at what you wrote me, it's like nothing's changed. We are what we were and you're the same as ever. Of course this isn't true -- memory is fluid. Time distorts what was; and what is, changes from moment to moment. I'm not the same person I was then, and you can't be either. But I don't want to forget who and what we were. I need to hold on to what we had, because it was beautiful. I need to remember what was real. It's an act of preservation -- I have to protect the memory of what we shared so I can believe I can some day have that again. By keeping your letters, I chose to remember you as you were, to remember us as we were, instead of as we are -- as friends, instead of strangers. I can't help wondering: how did you choose to remember me?