Please Don't Let Me Forget

    "You can't ever come back," he says with sympathy in his voice and eyes.
    I know this. I know, and still it breaks my heart. It rips out a chunk, still beating, and focuses it before my eyes. "Yeah, I know." I can't hide the sorrow, but I can at least hide the tears. After all, it is what I'm good at.
    "Is there anything you want to grab before we leave?" He places a hand on my forearm, but I shake it off. He's always the practical one, never wanting to lose sight of the present to dwell on the past. He's right, though. I should think about whether or not I want anything from this house. From this life. Because once I leave today. Actually, glancing at my watch, it looks like I've got twelve minutes left. But anyway, the point is that once I leave here, I will never return. This will be the last time I stand in this slightly tilted hallway, the last time I touch these walls, painted a deep crimson red (very poorly, I might add) by my mom and I during one of our "Martha Stewart" phases. A sad smile plays on my lips before a sob swallows it.
    I turn in a slow circle, trying to capture everything I possibly can and commit it to memory. I'm going to miss our old wood burning stove and the way it makes the house smell like camping. And nothing's going to compare to the utterly uncomfortable brown suede sofa we bought at a garage sale for fifty bucks and have kept for seven years, complaining each time we sat down, but smiling all the same.
    This place is full of memories, some good and some bad like any other place you may live in for upwards of eighteen years. So do I want to keep anything? No. Yes. No? I'm not really all that sure. A picture would be nice. One of my mom and I.
    What am I going to do without her?
    My chest heaves and a tear slips out as I reach for the framed photo on the antique chest. In the picture, my mom is giving me a piggy back ride and I am seven. We're smiling and wearing heavy fall clothing: hats, scarves, coats that bundle you up like a warm blanket, and boots with thick wool socks. That's not the reason I'm choosing this one out of the millions we have taken over the years, though. Despite the fact that it is right here and we seriously have to go, the reason I am bringing it with me is because it was taken by my dad.
    A hand on the small of my back startles me back to reality, and I jump. "What?" I wail.
    I don't like being surprised. "I'm sorry, really I am, but we need to go."
    I sigh and glance down at my watch again. How did twelve minutes pass so quickly? There's still so much I need to see and remember. "I'm not ready," I whine frantically, popping the photo out of it's wooden frame and pocketing it.
    "I'm sorry," he says again, and I know there's no way he is going to let me stay any longer. Who am I kidding? What kind of fantasy world am I living in? If he did let me stay, I'd be dead for sure.
    Come on, stay in reality, buddy.
    "Alright." I head towards the back entrance at a brisk pace, hoping that if I walk fast enough the memories won't be able to catch up with me. At least not right now.



    To be continued.