Walking With Memories

                                                                           Walking with Memories

 

I don’t want my surroundings to stay new and shiny while I fade; I want my belongings to grow old with me. I want my table to show lines of age and cracks of time. I want my wall paper to sag and peel and the colours to fade and as my hair turns   from wiry grey to soft white, I want the timber contours of my house to warp and bend as my bones creak with arthritis.  My house to grow old with me. I want to find  comfort in my collection of worldly treasures. You see, to me are they are not only priceless but are the essence of me. I will find Solitude in my torn lampshade from the Pyrenees, Warmth from my Iranian rug and its frayed edges. While autumn blazes its bronze and rusts and leaves amber piles around the base of the conquer trees that line the park. As the seasons change and stretch, I want my house to change too, to accompany me into my destiny. The relics of me, my house, reflecting my wonderful time here. A considerable collection of my substance, an eternal echo of my life. Of course I know I can't take anything with me. I'm not completely mad but I want them with me until the last breath leaves my body. Ideally, I would re awaken in my house as a twenty year old, with him by my side. Then they can be new and shiny agian. That's what i'm secretly hoping. 

I look at my hand, it’s practically see through, holding my china cup, with pain shooting through my wizened hands, the cup with a heart shaped chip in the handle, The cup he brought from a flea market in Paris, Only I will get the memory of that day, as I sip tea through my paper-thin lips. Only I can close my eyes and see my red dress swirl about my knees on a warm autumn afternoon, as sunlight pokes through the tree tops. Only my heart will skip as my feel his fingers close around mine in park full of children’s laughter. They want me to go in a home, my Grandchildren. My bone china teacup, decorated with tiny blue flowers and a golden rim and that remarkable chip in the handle. He said it was unique, just like me. So he stuffed it in his pocket and said I should always drink from it and think of him and this day. I kept my promise.

“Why do you want to hang on to all this stuff?” My granddaughter asks. She hasn’t lived my life, holds no value to memories, she has hasn’t made enough yet. She can’t know quite yet because she hasn’t lost yet. I love her and envy all the learning she still has to do. I could live my life again, all over again. I think I would enjoy it even more the second time around, in fact I think that’s would be my idea of heaven.