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The Loss of Memory by Fernando Chaves Espinach
 

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  • She said she remembered many things from her childhood, but she found it hard to recall the name of the little girl that lived next door and that came to play with her every afternoon. Think about it: you meet someone, see her every single day for a year or two, and a couple decades later that person is no more than, say, leaves of grass. One among hundreds of thousands of identical leaves, each of an indistinct color green, with next to none defining traits.

    And the silence that surrounds the whole of the grassland.

    In similar ways, one becomes an isolated light in vast, open spaces of the mind. Think of yourself as a speck of dust or a beam of light that lasts but a few seconds, still powerful enough to make a little mark on some grass leaf lost somewhere in a neglected garden. She said she thought of her often but could hardly make out her face or identify her in a photograph. She said she'd love to find her these days, maybe sit down and talk for a while of what had ever happened to her after her family left. But she hardly remembered the first letter of her name. An "A".

    Slowly you are enveloped by the tiny variations of light and shadow that make up people's lives. It's never too late to become an initial letter. You are always forgotten.

    But how wonderful it is to float out there in the grasslands! How lovely it is to let things pass!
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