Hope. The silent promise of something good that makes us keep on going. The stream that flows through us even when there’s been a fire and everything is dry, lifeless. The hand on my shoulder that urges me forward, to ignore all the desperation around me, even though I’m unable to move an inch from where I lie.
This is what I hold on to as I remember. Memories of deception, selfishness, violence. Memories of happiness, childhood innocence, love. This is what I cling on as I watch him on the ground, take his head between my hands and place it on my lap, closing my eyes just like his are and pretend. Glide my fingers through his blonde, wavy hair, stare at his peaceful, oblivious face, wishing more than anything in the world he wakes up, so I can see that crooked smile I loved, that serious expression he got when he was worried, the mischievous light in his eyes every time he planned something. A tear slides down my face,