I set a lighter to the last of those photographs, and he faded away from my shoe box of Polaroids.
In the twilight of my old haunts, I trace the winding crescent down to the very last house — mine. Broken, weathered, yet reminiscent of the dream that built me. I feel it now, vestiges of a preserve that lock me still in a hall of broken doors. And as I piece together the boulevard of stories that strung us all together, my memory begins to distort the truth.
The truth is, he disappeared the night he drove away in his Holden Commodore. From the empty street I had stared hard into the back windowpane, as though I could maybe salvage a last glance at the fairy tale that had never been mine.
He had been my one saving grace — that I know for sure; a picture-perfect still lost in the calamity that was my own tragedy.