If I remember you

I can't. But if I were to, I'd think of that old snowy hill beyond the library, the one where paths were cut into its snow by our sled. That one hill-- you know? The one bare and eerie this winter, with no sleds to pierce it. . . and those potions we would once mix, of bluebell, buttercup, and pine-- you know? Right? Now damp and dark, rotting and forgotten . . . and of the way I never saw how much you'd grown, even through the decade we lived together. We were too close to pay attention-- you know?

I suppose you couldn't know. I don't know where you've gone.

And I can't remember you. Because if I were to, our sled would pierce my heart, and it would tear apart, trickling down onto crimson snow. Because if I were to, those potions would poison me, make my face sting and smell of the sea. Because if I were to remember you, would you remember me? Would you see how much I've grown, have to strain yourself to recognize me?

I suppose you would, but I couldn't know. I don't know where you've gone. I’ve lost you and I'm lost to you, but you will never be lost to me. Because if I remember you, I will never forget.