The Future Memories
We got to our new city just as the sun was setting on Memorial Day. The only place open for dinner was a rooftop bar across the street. We sat on splintered stools, looking out at the pink and purple city that held so much promise. We would soon be married there in a small meditation chapel. I would become a mother there at the hospital just beyond the skyscrapers to the left, the same hospital you would become a surgeon at. I would start my own company in our large apartment whose windows we could see into, only boxes and a bare mattress to be seen. We would take our two boys to the movie theater whose old school sign flashed on and off, lighting up the night.
We eloped in a small meditation chapel and I did start my own company in that apartment, but everything else became future memories that would never come to pass.
Hope died with a deserted wedding veil on the kitchen floor on a cold December night.