We think we’ll remember it all and we remember hardly anything. Even when the car is only doing forty, it’s still going too fast. The trees are a green and gray blur, the restaurant where we thought we’d die laughing over the misspelled menu has come and gone. Neon-green streaks and bolts of flamingo pink blow up the sky on a winter night in Maine and we think – oh, we will never forget these northern lights, but we do.

What we remember is only the curling picture in the left-hand drawer, or a gorgeous half page photo in an old travel magazine, but what we saw when we held hands, lifting our chins to the sky as if we could leap into the jagged, jeweled brilliance above us, was seen for ten seconds only, and never again.

Amy Bloom, ‘White Houses’.

How true.

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