In the big cupboard, there sits an old wooden box. The box has an old time charm that is hard to miss. On the top, there are two red birds, brush painted and clearly in love. There are blue swirls on the side, dotted with small flowers that women pluck and swoon over.
There is a smell that comes with the box – of wood and grime, and old times. The smell conjures up images from a time long gone, where the air was perfumed and people had pocket watches. I can imagine my grandmother, walking around a room with high ceilings and lace curtains. A nameless flower tucked in the folds of her plait.
I can picture her opening this box, looking at the birds on the top, when their red was redder and their affection blossoming. The box holds her knick knacks. Butterfly shaped clips with wide set teeth, metal bangles from a fair, nail clippers with a picture of the sun, black and white pictures of her and her siblings at a railway station. I can imagine her looking at the pictures, running her hands over them. Her bangles rolling up and down her forearm, clinging together as though scared.
The box still has some of those things. The pictures have started to crumble, powdered memories in black and white. A lone metal bangle sits in there, the other having gotten lost somewhere along the way. There are other things too. Loose coins, that must have passed through many hands. Folded receipts of tailored clothes left in there for safe keeping.
I leave some of my things in there now, deliberately. Small pieces of jewellery and a passport sized picture of a 9 year old me; buck teeth and a school uniform.
I like to believe that one day someone will find these box and conjure up a memory of me. A memory of me preserving another memory. And perhaps eventually, we’ll have a long chain of memories, all under the watchful eyes of the red birds.
There is a smell that comes with the box – of wood and grime, and old times. The smell conjures up images from a time long gone, where the air was perfumed and people had pocket watches. I can imagine my grandmother, walking around a room with high ceilings and lace curtains. A nameless flower tucked in the folds of her plait.
I can picture her opening this box, looking at the birds on the top, when their red was redder and their affection blossoming. The box holds her knick knacks. Butterfly shaped clips with wide set teeth, metal bangles from a fair, nail clippers with a picture of the sun, black and white pictures of her and her siblings at a railway station. I can imagine her looking at the pictures, running her hands over them. Her bangles rolling up and down her forearm, clinging together as though scared.
The box still has some of those things. The pictures have started to crumble, powdered memories in black and white. A lone metal bangle sits in there, the other having gotten lost somewhere along the way. There are other things too. Loose coins, that must have passed through many hands. Folded receipts of tailored clothes left in there for safe keeping.
I leave some of my things in there now, deliberately. Small pieces of jewellery and a passport sized picture of a 9 year old me; buck teeth and a school uniform.
I like to believe that one day someone will find these box and conjure up a memory of me. A memory of me preserving another memory. And perhaps eventually, we’ll have a long chain of memories, all under the watchful eyes of the red birds.
I like the thought...stirs up warm emotions...
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