you held it firmly. you would have argued for it in a kitchen, on a roof, in a letter. it organised the smaller beliefs around it; it gave shape to a great deal of evening conversation. it was good company.

then it began, quietly, to soften — not from refutation but from time. you could not say when it died. one season you noticed you had stopped reaching for it as the explanation. another, you noticed you found it embarrassing in a friend's mouth. one more, you noticed the embarrassment had cooled, too, into something like fondness.

you keep no quarrel with it. it was not stupid; it was the right shape for the size you were. it sits here with its small marker and a faint patch of moss, and you visit, occasionally, to be reminded what it was like to be that earlier person, certain in that particular way.