It doesn’t matter how much you miss something or someone. Or, if you were blessed with the privilege of a long goodbye, how hard you try to commit every dwindling moment to memory. Time has a way of saying goodbye for you.

It has a way of easing the ache and blurring the picture, until all you are left with are the most minute, random and particular bits to reminisce. Of the grandest, most joyous, saddest and most achy things of life that have shaped and left me, I would’ve wanted to remember everything in technicolour and with photographic detail. Instead, most times, I am left with snatches of people, things, activities.

Like patting my grandma’s wrinkled hand on Sunday afternoons. Chopping up poached chicken in that old kitchen. The smell of steam bread after school. The ghost of a mountain at night while on holiday. Raising a ‘peace’ sign at my band’s last big gig. It feels awful that I cannot remember more of everything. At the same time, I know these slivers of the past are well and alive. And enough.