Second Death


The image of Ciara is beginning to fade. It is distant, blurred, out of focus now. I strain to bring it forward, to sharpen the focus. But it remains at a fixed distance, moving backwards at exactly the same rate as I move forward.

Occasionally I manage to conjure up a vivid image of her, only to be disappointed by the realisation that it is an image of a photograph I have of her.

I try to recall her voice, her laughter, but they elude me. The living, breathing Ciara is fading from my memory. The past, no matter how precious, cannot be held. Surely this is the second death.