Death makes statues of all things. Perfect images sculpted out of imperfect memories, never to be altered or corroded by the unraveling of time or slow recollection.
And at these tabernacles of memories we put aside the failed moments and hasty remarks. We sacrifice the reality of history so the memory endures greater than it ever was.
Like a dream hoped to be authored into existence, memory passed death is but a wishful assembly assembly of moments that characterize the best of someone and the others are disregarded, until the memory is not a memory at all but maybe something better; the continuance of love.
Memory - unlike history - is not linear. It does not follow a straight course as you re-trace its fingerstains in your mind. It mingles with itself and weaves in and out to better suit the ending. A single event can live on in one thousand memories and in each memory it can take on different forms. Memory is a painting commissioned by a biased artist.