Violet

On the corner of a village street, on top of the hill where the wind whirls and moans,  I feel memory twining around me like a nerve. It doesn't hurt to the touch, not really, just a little chill and a shiver, the presence of what is not-quite-forever-gone.

Taryn and me, coltish girls dancing around on the road above the canyon. Lip gloss, ruffles, Ralph Lauren plaid. The sky is violet, the full moon is cold. 

The memory is glossy and slick like hard candy. Watermelon, cherry, green apple scent. 

In my mind, we run home, laughing. From my perch, I can see Taryn through the window of her shop.  We are old now. And yet, and yet. 

Somewhere across the distant ocean, a clock chimes midnight. 

Time never really dies, does it?