What Comes, Goes [https://i.imgur.com/zA2EJ8O.png]

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It's a slow death, forgetfulness.

Losing what once was, bit by bit. Letting it slip away, one leaf at a time caught in the winds of what always comes to pass until there's just branches of what was. It's still there, by God, but it's never the same. A memory is recalled as memories are, and loses its leaves until it’s gone forever.

The little girl, the little Amy, points towards the cake behind the counter’s glass. A thousand fingers have smudged it before. Possibly, a thousand fingers will smudge it to come, persons who don’t yet exist, placing their hands upon those who no longer do.

James doesn’t even look at the price, and pays for it in full. Amy delights herself in a little dance, one involuntary and bristling with energy. Across the shop floor, Elizabeth waits for the pair. She’s picked out the nicest window seat there is, a full view of the grey road. Several cars pass by. Her chair rocks underneath her. Its legs are different lengths. She doesn’t mind. The others weren’t so lucky. One man in the middle of the room sits upon a chair several inches shorter than it should be, and he is the short one of his group. He vanishes below their table.

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Once all is bought and the coffee made, James balances the precariousness on the tray and carries it over to the table. Elizabeth pulls out Amy’s seat and the little girl kneels upon it. She is young enough that none questions.

James serves the coffee, and lets Amy take the first and best slice of cake. Hers is the frosting-full part, taken as a tax from the grown-ups who will have to do without the sweetness of the icing. It is their lot in life, as it will be Amy’s once she is older. What comes, goes.

That’s what Suzanne said. What comes, goes.

Elizabeth pauses at the thought as it breaks into her mind, threatens her with memory, holds something to her throat that makes it tight and dry. James hands her a spoon, and she takes it without thinking. Her coffee doesn’t need to be stirred. Elizabeth stirs her coffee.

Amy talks about school and her upcoming arts and crafts project. She needs glitter, and glue, and everything to make a mess on the carpet. James doesn’t mind. He can’t. The price to pay—like all—is small, like Amy. Hers is a much more joyous cause than glitter, and glue, and a mess on his carpet.

The mess on the carpet.

James shoos away the memory.

He shoots away the—

Elizabeth clinks the spoon down on her saucer and wipes the icing from Amy’s nose. She so enjoys the coffee shop, just down the sweet lane. It is such a light place to go, and is filled with marvellous scents to enjoy. Each time is a new and wonderous experience for Amy, who does not have the burden of true memory.

Oh, she remembers, but she will not remember.

There is a grace in that.

James blinks, and sips his coffee.