She is gone - it is time to turn the page.  But the weight of this page holds so much mass, so much substance, so much strength.  Each word on the page grasps to the paper, to my mind, with irrepressible force.  These words fill with memory and recognition, stories and emotions.  How does one turn the page away from them?  Each word is written in flowing cursive like her warm long hair.  Each period, bold and effective like each moment of happiness, love, and dread she forced into me.  Each paragraph, both long and short, fills with moments from our life.  On paper these moments are merely black and white but, in reality, come far from it.
        These words evoke life and love: they describe long nights, where we talked forever and cried in each other’s arms under the moon’s sympathetic stares; they describe egg-breakfasts that steamed into our bed-headed hair and we would laugh and yawn with the dawning sun; they describe the autumn afternoons, where we would picnic under the orange leaves and eat strawberries and kiss.  We would kiss and kiss, her warm rosy lips against mine, her soft cheek against my stubble chin, her slow fluent retreat against my will and her dark blue eyes staring into mine.  With every story, every line, every word on the page, it was clear: I loved her.
        How could I just turn away now?  The words weigh the page with the endless power of love.  The final words on the page break my heart; my eyes water and fill as the scene goes over in my mind again and again and over and over, each time ending the same.  There was no denying it, no hiding from it: she was gone. 
        But a page of words, a page of moments, is not made up of just the final line.  It is made up of every single word.  The burden of this page will always live with me, but it’s one I am willing to carry.  I store it in my heart and I flip the page over - I move on, but I never forget.