He had been thinking lately that he couldn’t quite remember the lines in her face any more; the criss-cross patterns that uniquely identified her to him were losing their clarity as he sought to recreate her likeness in his consciousness.
Ever since she’d been gone he had felt that he was losing a little fidelity every day, it was all a little softer – less defined, and the thought occurred to him that perhaps losing one’s mind might be like this.
In truth his mind was as clear as ever, it was time that was playing tricks on him, making him second-guess his recollection of her, subtly smudging the edges in the same way that a raindrop mellows the characters on a piece of paper.
He glanced at a photograph, dog-eared and faded by the years, the monochromaticity of her features suddenly brought into sharp relief – he was back, staring into her eyes as he had done for nearly forty years; now he remembered her.
Putting the photograph down he settled back into his chair and closed his eyes, a quiet smile on his face; it would not be long now.