Memories of her linger still in the folds of my mind, where the murmur of all pleasant things echoes, secluded from the scrutinizing harshness of reality. Closing my eyes, I see her as graceful footsteps carry her along the beach where we once walked, the iridescent light of evening dancing on her pale face. Hanging at her side, sandals dangle listlessly between her delicate forefinger and thumb, as sea spray splashes around her ankles and licks at the sandals’ cork soles. She extends her hand and encloses mine. Turning, I grin at her, and she returns a soft smile.

          We walk on the sands of time. The shallow imprints of my feet as a child deepen and grow wider, before the ocean tide erases each fallen step. No longer must I skip and stumble to match her smooth stride. Within hers, my grasp grows firmer. Gradually, I sprout taller, until I am not merely a small girl bobbing by her waist, but a young woman gazing equally into her eyes.

          Simultaneously, she is aging. Wrinkles, the fragile tales of time, gather around her eyes from too many smiles. In her glance linger the memory of hardship and the pride of triumph. Her step, although it still emanates grace, slows and shortens. At her waist, she stoops slightly and braces herself with a hand. Once a deep and radiant brown, her hair is now silvery white, like the crystal perfection of fresh-fallen snow.

          Swallowed by the joy of my own evolution, I fail to nurture her. Time creeps away on feline foot, and I realize my solecism too late. For velvety night has finally fallen, draping the beach and lapping ocean. Her grip over mine loosens and is lost. Frantic, I seek to redeem it, but cannot find her hand in the thickness of the night. Searching for the comfort of her smile, I find the dark betrays my probing eyes. A tear slips down my cheek.

          "I love you," I whisper. But she is gone.