Grief has many faces. Some loud and angry, some quiet and aching. But one of the most unsettling ones, the one that creeps in when everything else is still, is the fear of forgetting.
I don’t talk about it as often. Maybe because it feels disloyal to even whisper it out loud. But it’s there. This fear that time will blur the sharpness of memory. That the sound of your laugh might fade. That your scent, once so familiar, might drift further from reach. That the images in my mind—your face, your expressions, your way of standing just slightly off center—might begin to soften like a photograph left too long in the sun.
And I panic at the thought.
Because forgetting even the smallest part of you feels like losing you all over again.
I replay our moments in my head, not just for comfort, but for preservation. I dig through old messages, photos, scraps of paper with your handwriting—desperate to keep every piece of you intact. I try to recall the tone of your voice in everyday conversation, the phrases you used, the look you’d give me when you thought I was being ridiculous, or when you were proud. I grasp for details like they’re slipping through my fingers, because some days, they are.
And it scares me.
People say, “You’ll never forget,” and I know what they mean. I won’t forget you. But memories are living things, and they change with time. They dim, they shift. And while I will always carry you in my heart, I can’t help but mourn the clarity that time quietly steals.
This fear—this haunting worry that someday I won’t remember everything—sits heavy. It’s not just about memory. It’s about holding onto the reality of you. About making sure your presence still has form in a world that keeps moving forward without you.
But here’s what I’m learning, slowly and painfully: forgetting isn’t the same as letting go. And remembering isn’t just about perfect recall—it’s about honoring.
Even if the details change, your love remains embedded in the fibers of my being. You are written into the way I move through this world. You are a part of what has shaped me. And that doesn’t fade.
So maybe, when I can’t quite picture the exact curve of your smile, I’ll find you instead in the way the sun hits the trees on a certain afternoon. In a song that stops me mid-sentence. In the laughter of someone you loved. In the ache that still rises in my chest—and reminds me that you mattered. That you still matter.
I may forget small things. But I will never stop remembering you.
Not ever.