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…”