"Better by far you should forget and smile than that you should remember and be sad." - Christina Rossetti

The chipped ceramic mug warmed Amelia’s hands, the Earl Grey doing little to thaw the chill that seemed to have settled in her bones sometime around last November. Outside, a persistent drizzle blurred the edges of the rose garden, mirroring, she thought with a wry internal twist, the blurring of memories she’d been deliberately attempting for the past six months. Six months since Daniel left. Six months since the careful architecture of her life had crumbled, not with a dramatic explosion, but a slow, insidious erosion.

She found herself, inevitably, returning to the quote from Christina Rossetti, a line her grandmother, Nana Elsie, had embroidered on a sampler that now hung, ironically, in the guest room Daniel had so often occupied. “Better by far you should forget and smile than that you should remember and be sad.” Nana Elsie, a woman who had weathered a world war and a husband lost too young, understood the weight of holding onto grief. Amelia hadn’t understood it then, hadn’t appreciated the wisdom whispered between stitches of crimson thread. She'd always been a rememberer, a collector of moments, a curator of history – both personal and otherwise.

Now, she was actively engaged in un-remembering. It started small. Removing photos, of course. That felt…clinical, almost necessary. Then came the gradual re-arrangement of furniture, shifting the living room layout to avoid the indentation on the sofa where he’d always sat. She donated his books – his carefully annotated editions of classic poetry, the weight of them ironically heavy with the very things she was trying to escape. Friends suggested therapy, and she went, dutifully unpacking feelings she didn’t quite feel anymore, or rather, feelings she was actively suppressing. Her therapist, Dr. Chen, encouraged ‘cognitive reframing,’ a phrase Amelia found intensely irritating. It felt…dishonest. As if rewriting the past could somehow erase the ache.

But the ache did lessen, incrementally, through sheer force of will. She’d joined a pottery class, the physicality of working with clay grounding her in the present. She’d taken up birdwatching, finding a surprising solace in identifying species and tracking their migrations. She’d even accepted a date with Mark, a kind, slightly awkward architect who smelled of sandalwood and talked passionately about sustainable building practices.

Mark was… nice. Perfectly, relentlessly nice. And that was the problem. He wasn't Daniel. He didn’t know her childhood nickname, the way she liked her coffee, the precise shade of blue that made her eyes sparkle. He didn't share the silent understanding built over years of shared laughter and quiet companionship. Trying to replicate that, or worse, expecting it, felt like a betrayal.

Yesterday, while driving home from the pottery class, a song had come on the radio – “Harvest Moon,” their song. A wave of nausea had washed over her, followed by a sharp pang of longing so intense it felt physical. She’d pulled over, clutching the steering wheel, tears stinging her eyes. For a moment, she'd been transported back to a summer night, dancing under a canopy of stars, Daniel’s arms wrapped around her waist.

And then, just as quickly, she'd forced herself to breathe, to focus on the feel of the leather beneath her fingers, the sound of the rain on the windshield. She'd repeated Nana Elsie’s quote like a mantra, a shield against the onslaught of memory. It wasn't about erasing Daniel; it was about choosing to live in a present not defined by his absence.

Today, looking at the rain-soaked roses, she realised the quote wasn’t about blissful ignorance. It wasn't about pretending the past hadn't happened. It was about acknowledging the sadness, feeling it fully, and then consciously choosing to redirect your focus towards something – anything – that offered a glimmer of hope. It was about recognizing that dwelling in sorrow wasn’t a tribute to lost love, but a prison of your own making.

Amelia took a slow sip of her tea. She still missed Daniel, a dull ache that would likely never completely disappear. But for the first time in six months, she felt a flicker of something else – not joy, not yet, but a quiet acceptance. A fragile beginning. She smiled, a small, tentative curve of her lips. Perhaps Nana Elsie was right. Perhaps, it truly was better to forget and smile, even if the forgetting was a slow, deliberate act of self-preservation. And maybe, just maybe, one day, the smile wouldn't feel so…effortful.