The memory box

Layla brushed her withered fingers against the polished wood, breathing in the smell of Reckitt Banckiser polish floating in the easy summer breeze. She absentmindedly found the latch and unhooked the silver clutch. Her breath caught as she lifted the lid, exposing an array of jumbled tokens, photographs and clippings. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest, the blood rushing to her ears as though she had been running. The child at her side stirred and Layla rocked the swinging chair gently to quieten her. Slowly, she shuffled the oddities around the box, stroking them with an idle smile. Her attention was caught by a lovely paper rose, its delicate pink petals dabbed with sparkles and minute silver beads. Her mind wandered to the heavy Orlando afternoon under the plum tree where her Charlie had tenderly placed the fragile gift in her trembling hand. “It reminds me of you” he had whispered, “graceful and charming yet steadfast as ever.”

Life had seemed more beautiful to her afterwards, even if Charlie was halfway around the world fighting in a war that was not his to fight.

 Sighing, Layla picked up a photograph of a glowing bride shyly reaching out to grasp her future. How long had she spent patiently stitching together those yards of ivory damask? It must have been weeks if not months. But oh how her Charlie had smiled as she glided down the aisle! His eyes had sparkled so, seeing only her, a vision in white.    

Next came a snapshot of her darling baby Lily, the pride and joy of the small family. With a shock of brilliant red hair and a fiercely determined personality, Lily had set out to conquer the world one wobbling step at a time. Layla nearly laughed outright at the recollection of the child in bright yellow wellingtons (which had been much too large at the time) and a homemade blue cape as she faced a regiment of hungry ducks at the pond. Her girl had bravely attempted to teach the squawking brood some manners whilst she fed the demanding creatures. “Duckies say pwease!”

Layla chose a black and white image of her mischievous boys flying off a dock into a cool lake. She was transported back in time to the little cabin beside the lake where the growing family had spent such delightful summers. George and Nicolas had spent hours competing against each other for the highest jump, largest splash or farthest dive. Picnics, forest walks, and barbeques filled those sunny days with evening storytelling and charades as the cherry on the cake.

Grinning merrily, Layla flipped through a stack of letter clippings, recalling the year Lily spent studying art history in Europe and the piles of letters that accompanied it. “Chère maman,” one said, “Avignon is beautiful, yet I miss you and papa and the boys dearly…” A photo of Mr. Sniffles, the impish ginger cat lay on the bottom of the box, reminding Layla of the feline friend so doted on by the family.

The child that had been sleeping serenely fluttered her eyelashes and sat up gingerly. “Nana,” she whispered, “will you tell me a story?”

Layla floated peacefully back to the present, taking in the large, well-kept garden, a puppy soaking in the last rays of afternoon sunshine and the angelic little girl at her side. She smiled, pulling the child onto her lap and caressing her blond curls. “Yes, a story. Hmm, let me think for a moment, there are so many to choose from…”

       

    

Vancouver: A Jackson Pollock painting; multitudes of contrasting colours dwelling in harmony.

The politically correct duck

The duck prided herself for being politically correct in every way possible. Good manners were indispensable, proper conduct unavoidable, and appropriate appearance absolutely necessary.

The duck would graciously waddle through town, nodding to passers-by, stopping to chat with the baker’s wife and asking the postmistress how young Charlie was fairing in college. No matter her mood, the duck would always be pleasant and cordial; assisting others if need be, never laying her burdens on her friends and permanently avoiding nasty gossip.

The duck was much loved and respected by the citizens of the town. Those who did not know her well were treated as kindly as her closest friends, and she was always ready to perform charitable and kind acts. Mothers pointed her out to their children whispering “do you see Mrs. Duck over there? Well, she is truly the most thoughtful soul that ever set foot in this town. Follow her example, and people will be kind to you all your life.”      

One day, the duck was on her way back from visiting a sick cousin when she met a stranger on the road. He was tall, with reddish fur and a thin, pointed face. The duck, polite as ever, called to him and inquired on his situation. The stranger bowed and introduced himself as Mr. Fox.

“Mrs. Duck” enquired the fox, “might I ask how far the nearest town is?”

The duck did not like this stranger for his mischievous eyes unsettled her, yet, priding herself for being well mannered, she replied that it was not for a good while. The fox smiled, showing white, pointed teeth.

“Excellent” he whispered, and lunged for the duck.  

No one ever saw the duck again. The town grocer did suggest that he viewed a strange fox enter his store shortly after Mrs. Duck had left for her cousin’s house, but no enquiry was made. The townsfolk missed her sorely and never forgot the kind-hearted duck.

Lesson: be well mannered and nice, but not too nice.

When the world falls into autumn

Autumn. Some love it, others adore it.

I belong to the later.

Whatever you say, I’ll always love the day

When the world falls into autumn.

Tress lose their leaves

(You might start to sneeze)

And the apples and pumpkins pop out.

Kids run around and delight at the sound

Of “pie’s done” and “cookies are ready!”

When the world falls into autumn.

The days get colder and a lot shorter

And coats and mittens are worn.

Hot chocolate’s back

So put on your hat!

When the world falls into autumn.

 

 

 

The thing about Nutella

The thing about nutella is that it’s perfect. Absolute. Complete. Faultless. Sublime. Superb.

Nutella is my life support in a distinctly transparent glass container labelled in bold, cherry-red letters. However destitute I may become, I plan on always having a jar of glorious nutella at hand. After an especially trying day, a heaping spoon of the creamy brown paste erases all frustration at first contact with the lips. A burst of delicate sweetness entwined with majestically rich flavour melts lovingly away, leaving blessed peace and contentment. A soothing tenderness rushes through my veins and envelops me as easily as the most appeasing blanket. A luscious satisfaction settles over the room and all earlier dis-heartedness and indignation are forgotten.

Nutella, as I perceive it, is the cure to everything from a broken heart to a bad cold. So next time bleakness and exasperation take over, run down to the nearest corner store and purchase your own life-support for only $5.99!   

Discreetly tucked away in an obscure corner of the garden lies an unfrequented tree house. Strong winds, rain and snow have unjustly sullied the wood; once varnished into flawlessness. Bottle green moss and coarse lichen adorn the muted walls in place of glossy lacquer and stiff boards block out the light that once streamed in through door and windows. Branches, once neatly trimmed, now viciously claw at the decrepit structure.  Yet a faint ray of sunlight still shines upon the sad edifice, proposing hope in future generations to come.        

 

The damp, skeletal structure stands shakily upon its bare frame, as though unsure whether or not to collapse. A bed of moist ivy lies beneath, as though prepared to cushion its fall. In the background, dank planks of obscure and rotting wood hide the dejected sight while thick branches entwine themselves around one another to form the braided trunk of a tree. A bush adorned with murky, olive coloured leaves presides menacingly in a corner, ready to pounce at any unfortunate enough to pass by.

Standing proud and erect, a rough piece of wood contrasts with a dim, soggy background. Thinly carved lines coarsen the lightly tanned surface while a column, darkened by rain gives the appearance of paintbrush stroke. A strand of thin ivy slowly winds itself around the pillar; a gleaming emerald snake patiently biding its time. Minute raindrops glisten like diamonds against delicately shaped leaves, displaying poisonous elegance.            

Where my world began

The habitual comforting sight of the forest glade quickens our heart beats as we enter in our customary disorderly fashion. A tremor of excitement runs through our modest congregation, each individual relishing the thought of escaping from the unbearable dullness hanging so menacingly in the static summer air. This is the centre of our world; a place of great beauty and abundance, a place brimming with diversions, a place of bliss, a place of revelry.

This is our sanctuary, our realm, our haven.

Thin rays of hindered sunlight form diaphanous columns, acting as both spotlights and support systems to the cavernous foliage above. Gargantuan trees tower, alarming yet protective, their ancient bark twisted into an assembly of tempestuous, companionable and melancholy faces. An ocean of cushiony mosses and aesthetic ferns cloak the forest floor like lush blankets. The sweet chirping of robins, humming of insects, the wind ruffling leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl blend together to create a melodious and soothing melody.   

Delicate lilies daintily float upon a pool of shimmering water; home to a multitude of intriguing aquatic creatures.  Schools of brightly colored fish flit about in circles as we admire them for hours, entranced by their alien artistry. As the dreamy movement of the sun indicates early afternoon, the intense competition of who can collect the most outrageous frog or the greatest number of snails begins. We search high and low, each scrutinizing every nook and cranny in earnest, fighting for the most inhabited logs, climbing perilous trees, squeezing into minuscule holes; our ambitious nature our Achilles heel. The winner receives the ultimate prize: the choice of today’s game.

Endless rounds of tag, hide and seek, manhunt, cops and robbers and sardines become increasingly zealous as the afternoon progresses. As cuts and bruises are accumulated, tension increases and egos reveal themselves. Finally, with an insurmountable explosion of energy, the last game comes to an end and we are left breathless and content.

Overwhelmed with exhaustion, we soon fall asleep in the lush grass; the distinct aroma of damp greenery and humid mud flooding our nostrils. A deep and restful sleep overtakes me whilst dreams of woodland sprites swirl through my mind. Minute fairy creatures sparkle brilliantly as they dart about through the air, dancing at dizzying speeds, inviting me to join them.          

As all precious times do, our splendid day comes to an end all too soon. One by one we depart, trailing our feet behind in protest as we follow our mothers’ increasingly inpatient calls. These partings are always tinged with a mixture of sadness and contentment: we must leave, but we all know that we can always come back.