Today I noticed the steam coming out of Chloe's cup. Untouched, it sat on a coaster by a window filling our apartment with the morning sun.
And I just watched it. Truly, it was beautiful. It rose higher and higher and twirled and swayed and disappeared into the sun.
But then slowly, it faded, as the untouched tea turned lukewarm. Yet I can't not be fascinated with it.
The steam, etched in my memory.
Last night, my mom started a fire in the living room. It was the last fire she'd have in our family home. Today she moves out for good.
And I can just picture the flames burning brighter as it heats up. I picture their dance and begin to hear pops of music. I cannot look away.
But then it fades.
Slowly dies.
Darkness.
Yet the memories are still there. Long talks with friends and family while holding cups of coffee, laying on the wood floor with murphy in the morning, challenging myself to see how many pieces of wood I can carry inside the house this time, accidentally giving me little brother a bloody nose at age 7 while playing cowboy and horsey.
But time does not stop, and memories too, begin to fade.
I was not there last night. I did not sit there mourning the last of our fires. I did not try and picture the many fires that are yet to come, creating new memories for people I do not know. Instead, I'm sitting on my apartment's futon watching the last of the steam barely make its way past the rim of Chloe's cup.
And it feels like I'm saying goodbye.