Ink Remembers
These pages were fragile, the handwriting a relic of a different life. Yet, there it was—myself at ten, reaching out to the current me. As I read, a familiar name surfaced: Cynthia.
I sit at my desk, wondering who she’d become. Last year, I’d sent her New Year’s greetings. She never replied. Her voice, her laugh, her presence have faded, yet she is immortalized here. She was once so central to me that I’d promised on the first page: “Best friends forever.” Now, I know better. “Forever” dissolves in the face of reality; the people we once held closest become strangers.
As I turned the page, a birthday card slipped out. I knelt, worried it might crumble. Her handwriting greeted me: delicate, slanted, impossibly familiar. I could almost smell her jasmine lotion. At the bottom, her final words jumped out: “I love you forever.” We’ve both likely forgotten the depth of our friendship, but in those three words, something was preserved.
Writing is a kind of defiance, a rebellion against time and its quiet erasures. It is proof that we existed, that we loved, that we mattered to someone, even if only for a moment. Writing fixes our emotions, protects them from forgetting. It perfects the impossible fantasy of “forever.”
Skimming her card, I felt a distant warmth. The memories came alive: fragile, worn, but still there. Tentatively, I opened our old chat and sent a message. In writing, I remind myself that I still feel, that I’m still reaching for meaning.
Writing is not just a record of life, but a way of holding on—to love, to memory, to the things we fear will slip away. It is tough, unyielding, and honest, even when we are not. In its silent, stubborn way, it teaches me to be the same.