Marilyn opened the top drawer in the room where she grew up and found a poorly decorated box filled entirely with old hopes.
Photographs, sounds, and bullshit mementos of when things were going to be a certain way.
The slight rhythmic squeak of the ceiling fan was just as she had remembered. It, like all other things she knew had remained eternal.
A slightly torn picture rested atop the pile. She remembered the day she tried to shred this memory, but was too conflicted to complete the job. That memory. The memory of her inability to destroy the memory had all but eliminated all the memories and all the reasons she wanted to destroy it in the first place.
Dinner was getting cold downstairs.
She was in no hurry though, despite the hopeful voices that ebbed through the walls.
Why change now? This moment, like all things, like the perfect moment she was missing, would last forever.