Numb

Drowning somewhere near the bottom of her half-empty glass is the memory of a better time. The more she sips, the less whiskey there is to swirl. She forgets the past, not wanting to remember anymore. Timidly she reaches out, as if it was out of her grasp, and picks up the ornate crystal bottle to replenish her glass. A calm amber-brown stream pours out, like the soft river current flowing over smooth rocks on its way downstream. Slowly, a grey shadow begins to darken as the coming sunset draws nearer, and the hurt of what has come to pass finally becomes numb. 

It’s gone now. The daughter that never became a woman, the moments that never became memories, the life that was never lived. It’s gone now, washed away in the cold whiskey’s current.