Short Story

Why a Raven is Like a Writing Desk

I remember everything. Every soul that has passed through this life.

Every face, the memories that come with them;

They're like the imprints left on an old oak desk.

The pen was pressed hard enough to leave the name.

Not enough to leave an obvious mark.

You can scratch at the finish, you can sand off the stain,

But the letters are still there.

It still remembers.

I still remember

How softly you spoke, and how we haven't spoken since.

The disappointed look you gave me when I got in trouble, and the tears I cried.

Your story about the spider that crawled up your back.

How could I forget?

How you yelled at me for being honest, but the world was on my side that day.

The chair you threw across the room in a fit of rage.

The harmony we sang.

I may not always be here, you may not always see me,

But you are not forgotten.

I didn't forget you,

And so I'll sit among the others.

A silent observer to your life as you pass through mine;

High in this dead tree, shrouded in my own darkness.

You won't remember me.

You'll forget just like that old desk you sat in at school.

But I'll remember you, long after we're gone.