Snapshot Conclusion

"Yes," I said, and we both clambered inside just before the travelling
log climbed up a steep watery slope and wound its way through the
trees. In silence we held each other. Only the steady rush of water and
the distant hum of voices disturbed our reverie.

"It's time to let go, Mark," she said, turning awkwardly and kissing
me.

"I know, sweetheart," I said, and, bending forward, I buried my face in
her hair. Within seconds she had gone from me forever. I cradled empty
air, and cried painfully as the log teetered on the edge of a precipice
before topping over and splashing me with warm water. But the tears had
faded by the time the artificial river had led me back to where I
started. The woman stared suspiciously at my bloodshot eyes, but I
merely smiled weakly at her, and, dripping, started the long walk back
to Lowestoft and the train ride home.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the crumpled newspaper cutting,
reading for a final time the headlines that I once thought had ended my
life. PARENTS, DAUGHTER KILLED IN ROAD ACCIDENT, they said. I turned
away from her golden-haired image, crunched the brittle paper in my
fist and hurled it into the nearest wastepaper basket.

She was right. It was time to let go, time to move on. I had always
lived with the awful pain and regret that we'd never be able to know
each other the way we were supposed to know each other. Yet somehow we
had been given that chance, and while I knew that if I returned to her
house at that moment, it would be lying in ruins and its gardens would
be choked with weeds, I realised the regret had gone. Only the happy
memories, the snapshots in time, remained.