The image commits itself to memory, without the need to remember. A large figure loomed from the bench, though gentle aura sheltered the weight of its determination. Worn, weary hands caressed exquisitely carved forms, supple fingertips tracing patterns over fine threads. Kind, careful eyes dreamed within yours, and a soulful warmth grew like a familiar flame, friendly in its glow. A voice flowed like water over a shore of soft rounded pebbles, the quiet hiss running fingers down your spine, as the words tickled your ears, but never made you feel ill at ease.
Such things commit themselves to memory, without the need to remember.
But that voice will flow no more. Those hands will never dance again.
All that remains is the image. Committed to memory.