A snippet, or some

When we talk about other people, we do so in fragments. Fragments, because, in reality, that is all we have of them and that is all we will ever really know about them--of their moles and their scars, the barely-there sadness in their smiles, the lilt in their laughter, the secret fears they keep, the lifetime's worth of memories they hold in themselves. We might know one, or some, but even that knowledge will certainly be in fractions, and the pieces could be smaller then we would ever know.

The next person probably doesn't know that a strand of hair on their very own head has already turned gray.

Do you remember, with absolute certainty--even as you say you recall it in vivid detail--that single event, or that sequence of episodes that you know changed you forever?

For even as we think of ourselves, we think in fragments, too--larger ones, perhaps, yes, but still, fragments. For what memory is too clear, too present to be whole enough to be called whole? Even the the conversation over yesterday's breakfast blurs away into scraps. Last week's talk over coffee shrivels into crumbs. Pillow talk agenda disappear into smaller and smaller bits. The us of three weeks, five months, fourteen years ago might already be strangers should we meet them again tomorrow.

The odds could certainly vary, but our actions this morning might no longer make sense to us two days from now.