one real thing to hold onto

And sometimes, when she came across photos of you (as she inevitably did from time to time), she would look at your arms and think, “I was nestled there once. She held me like this. I remember how easily I spoke to her, praised her, laughed with her. I remember how much being there with her felt like home to me.” 

And as the world spun further and further out of control and nothing seemed to make any sense, she would hold tight to that moment, stepping back into her memory of it, conjuring up every detail she could recall (the precise way your fingers felt on her skin) and she would think to herself, “This is a real thing that happened, once, and nothing can ever change that.”