*via Guy Moll
Sometimes he made lists of strange things, whatever came to mind - lists of new words and old words and favorite words, lists of places to go and not go, lists of books still to be read. He doubted anyone would read these notebooks when he was gone. But it was a capsule of his own history, things that he actually witnessed, things that were his very own.
There was too much to write this time, too many words he was afraid to see on paper, as if that would make it more real. He pressed the tip of the pen to paper and the ink make a round splotch. He let the pen cascade across the paper, like a scroll, picturing the way Edie’s hair flew when she rode on Gray’s back and trying to sketch it, but he couldn’t capture the horse and he couldn't capture her, not that way, and he scribbled over the top of it, turning to a fresh page.
He made a list of all the things he remembered, minutiae like the soft down on her face. The curl of her upper ear like a sandbar in a river. Purple shadows underneath her eyes and the hum of her voice when she whispered. A surprising peek of blue lace on her shoulder. The slight curve of her back, as if she held a hollow inside. He took pleasure in every nuance. It was the only indulgence he’d be allowing himself. This list would be a sort of goodbye - the end of it.
(This is a snippet of my writing. You might know why I'm sharing it after I post tomorrow...)