The crisp breeze blew as time erased another sunset from the sky. The light of the first star pricked a hole in the darkness and the moon set up, dismissing the pale blue of the day. I found myself staring up, feeling insignificant, as memories of you began to wash in like broken seashells on a vast shoreline. I find myself trying to piece them together, hoping for a clear glimpse of your face, a memory of my hand in yours, or simply the sound of your voice. It gets more difficult every year. The ocean of my mind pulling back fragments while uncovering others. But I never manage enough pieces for a clear picture. Never enough for me to see you smile again, or hear the sound of your voice. Never enough to remember how it felt when you’d gathered me up in your arms as a child or tucked me in at night. I know you had done those things, but it’s hard to tell now. Is it my own memory, or just a story I once heard?