Distant sirens, the sash window open. Amber street light making strange the white bed. “Do you remember what you used to call me?” she says, smiling sadly, as she pulls her feet under the covers.
He is mid drink, and when he hears her, his drinking pace holds steady, but his eyes close. He finishes his drink. “No”, he says, without looking at her. He puts the glass quietly on the bedside table. The sound of ice in an empty glass. “No, I don’t.”
With love dies entire languages, as memories of jubilees, wars and eclipses die with each generation.
J. M. Barrie wrote “We have memory so we might have roses in December”.