The Magic Of Memories

By Pooja Pasricha

What they grew out of, she grew into..

Wrapped in memories and her warmest shawl, she sat in her porch.

Her feeble bent frame, crouched insignificantly in the large rocking chair;

The scratched surface and the chipped wood,

resonated a camraderie of years.

Her wrinkled, sagging, yellowed skin ,

a shared kinship with her fragile geriatric friends,

her books;

their spines frayed and delicate like hers;

their pages brittle, like her bones.

The deep blue trunk with dented edges;

the only precious treasure she owned;

encasing her life;

perched beside her,;

unstable;

a remnant of itself;

just like she was.

It had quietly become old with her.

Her crooked fingers cradling a pair of memoirs,

hand written;

reminiscent of the ink stained fingers and smooth flow of her Parker pen.

Her face warming to the memories,

a toothless smile lighting up her face.

She can smell it.

The scent of motherhood;

her faltering unsure steps as she had held her babies nervously.

Of failures,many, many many failures and learning (which was a never ending process.)

Of never being able to have her heart beat for herself alone.

How she had wanted to stop time at the first tinkly, gurgle of laughter.

She had contorted her facial features and pumped her arms up and down, squawking.

He'd been delighted;

he'd discovered laughter.

Her son, all of 3 months old.

She remembers repeating her silly antics just for the mirth to never stop.

She still remembers the colour of the sky,

it matched her son's outfit that day.

It now lay in her trunk safely, enveloping the warmth of the sun and the turquoise of the sky.

The florid satin ribbons,

lying curled in a corner,

like a captured rainbow,

smelt of those auburn curls;

She giggled at the sight of the wee shoes;

they had stored all the gaiety of the day when her little girl had donned them.

She had disliked footwear.

This pair had her walking cautiously gingerly;

each step deliberate and utterly comical.

The sight of the sipper still redolent with tanginess made her chuckle,

at the memory of her baby's grimacing face,

at her maiden taste of orange juice.

She smiled;

she cried.

Breathing in love;

she sat cuddling her life.

Her eyelids heavy with sleep,

she lay ensconced in a world that was.

Dreaming.

And the sky lit up with the mild orange and gold of the setting sun;

and her time.

By Pooja Pasricha