Millions of Moments

By Peter Bowden



She did not remember the first moment. It arrived before memory learned how to hold things. But moments came steadily after that, warm hands, summer light on the floor, a voice calling her home at dusk. None of them asked to be remembered. They simply stayed, layering themselves into her life the way time does when it is not being watched.

Most moments passed unnoticed. Washing a cup. Standing at the window while someone moved softly in the next room. Silence shared without needing words. Only later did she understand how much of her life had lived there, in the ordinary. Love, she learned, was not a single shining moment, but a thousand quiet choices repeated: I am here. I am still here.

By evening, when the day thinned and the house settled, she knew this much: a life was not made of years or milestones, but of moments gathered and kept, lost and found again. Millions of them. Enough to fill a heart. Enough to make a life.


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