Rating - G
Disclaimer, as always I own only my imagination. Any charaters you recognise are not my own, and I make no financial gain from this.
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Memories
You know through out my life I have gathered many things. Mementos of things past. Now for the first time in a long while, I am sat going through them. I sit in the middle of memories. I realise that I don’t remember all of them, that each item is the vessel. In front of me is a small wooden box, it’s contents bared for me to see. I take out the first object, and I wonder at the item in my hand, a rattle, so small, the bell within it still tinkling. A tear forms in my eye, at that one memory. The image of a small blonde child, swaddled, small face, nose wrinkled. I place it aside, and find the next piece. A small gold charm bracelet, I hold it up to the light, and the charms glisten and sparkle. Each dangling charm another memory, now the tears flow. I shake my head to clear them, wiping them away with the back of my hand.
Placing it to the side I search again. This time a book of poetry, hand written in a neat script. I open the book, reading the words on the first page.
My Dad,
My dad to me is forever,
My dad to me is love,
I know when I’m sad,
My dad will make me smile.
My dad, is my best friend,
To play games with,
And to help me, when in need.
My dad has the kindest heart.
To others my dad, is help.
To find the lost
And help the needy.
To right what was wrong.
He is all these things,
And much, much more.
Why? Just because,
He is My Dad.
The tears flow freely now, I can not stop them. They drip on to the page, the words now blurry. I drop my head, and closed the damp pages. I hold it close to my heart. I place with the other items next to me, taking up the last thing, a black ribbon. I gasp and shudder, sobs wracking my body. This memory is fresh, painful. I feel the despair, and the impotence once more. This was the life I couldn’t save, the one that should have been.
I feel presence before she speaks, but I don’t look up, or acknowledge her. Silently she comes to my side, she can feel the pain and anguish rolling off of me. She looks down and sees the rattle, book and bracelet. She rests her hand on my shoulder, her cool touch brings little comfort to me. She leans down and takes the ribbon from my hand. Now I look up into a familiar face, blonde hair, and blue grey eyes.
“What are you doing?” her voice is melodious, like her mothers.
“Spring cleaning Babe.” I give her a small sad smile. She kneels next to me, she looks into the box, and see the one hidden piece. A photo. She turns it over, a picture of a family, mum, dad, and baby. Now she weeps, and I place a reassuring arm about her, and she leans into my shoulder.
“I miss them. I miss them so much.” He words are muffled, but I hear what she says.
“I know, I know. I miss them too.” I take the photo from her hand turning it over to read the back.
Beth, Phe, and me. Griffith park, 3/5/12.
It’s written in Mick’s neat handwriting. I lift her chin, “We will always remember them.” I place all the pieces back in the box and stand. She stands with me, and places the ribbon in the box, and closes the lid. I hand her the box. “These are yours, your memories.” I watch as she hugs the box tight.
“Thank you Uncle Josef. Did you want to continue cleaning?” She has the same smile as her father, slightly crooked.
“No” I say, as I look about, my life is all contained in the artefacts about us, but it’s not just mine. The memories of my friends and my family are here, and you can not clear away the past. It is what makes us, who we are.
Nicely done!!
