The Glow

More and more, as I’m writing, I remember the feeling. I’m talking about that special, particular flavour of the time; that joy, that passion. I don’t know what brought it out. I don’t know why it went away. I don’t know how I let that happen. By inches, probably.

Sometimes, even these days, I catch a trace of it in thoughts. It reminds me of how different my life is, now. If it lingers long enough, and it hardly ever does, it makes me achingly sad. Not just with the touch of bittersweet sadness that is inherent in nostalgia, but a deeper, harder, aimless sadness.

Ella had a perfume. They don’t make it any more. I have an empty flask she gave to me.

Sometimes I wave it and breathe deep to catch the last trails of scent. It is still there. It makes me feel hope, and love, and young, and energy – not just energy, but my energy. It is so similar to this glow, I used to have. There will never be any more of it, and one day soon there will be nothing left to trace in the air.

This glow, I don’t even know if I trust it. Embers glow, and it can mean nothing at all.