The memory of old flames and the bitter taste of their names.
Watching my grandfather's soul leave his body next to his hospital bed.
Climbing the apple tree in my grandmother's yard when I was four.
The cliff I jumped off when I was 22. The star anise in my mother's noodle soup. My first kiss. My first cigarette. My first car. My first tattoo. Pashing strangers on the dancefloor. A summer fling who strummed his guitar in the backseat of my car. His email, years later, that said "I've been thinking of you..." and the email I fired back saying, "don't ever talk to me again." Staying up for hours talking about all the things in our head. Butterflies and fingertips on me. All the men I've loved before. Love stories, life stories, young love, mad love, last love. The lines I thought I'd never cross. Puffy eyes, salty tears and broken hearts. My hair flung over a toilet bowl purging a bitter break-up.
The indescribable feeling of life inside my belly--twice. The days that would turn into nights, as I'd cradle a crying baby to sleep. The nights I'd stand in front of the ocean wishing my life would end. That first 'I love you, mum.' The way they love you no matter what. Meeting this new person after nine months and realising it's not your baby; it's you.
Someone once asked me what I'm most afraid of and it's not the dentist or the dark. Maybe it's the walks we have to take alone. Or the fear of leaving loved ones behind. For me, it's lying on my dying bed with a sense that I had so much left still to do; people to love; and lessons to learn.
Until then, it's realising this is our life, and it's ending one moment at a time.
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