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She doesn’t remember me. She doesn’t remember those blissful
summer afternoons we used to spend lounging on her porch doing
nothing and just basking in one another’s company. She doesn’t
remember howwe used to have our weekly chess tournaments, when
neither of us really knew how to play at all. She doesn’t remember
how I would tell her everything dwelling on my mind, and she would
tell me everything on hers. She doesn’t remember anything. She
doesn’t even remember my name. Gran doesn’t remember me; to her
I am a stranger. A
stranger
. The thought resonates in my head,
bouncing within like an aggravating tennis ball. I cannot grasp what
has happened, I cannot fully comprehend it. My feet pound on the
dirt ground, conjuring billowing clouds of dust, as I fly down the lane
leading toGran’s. Tears streaking downmy face, I struggle to breathe
through my constricted, collapsed lungs. I would give anything to be
here with Gran right now, cheerfully ambling along the lane arm in
arm as we used to.
I reach the familiar bright orange door that represents everything
that Gran is; eccentric, loving, bright, beautiful. Wherever she goes,
happiness and inner beauty seem to radiate from her. I look over to
the array of clay flowerpots Gran had tenderly aligned on the timber
shelf under the curtained windows. Fourth one from the door. I
reach into it, letting my fingers slightly slide through the granular
soil, and grasp the rusty brass key. Gran won’t remember which pot
contains the key, I bitterly think. Such a trivial thing, but knowing
that Gran won’t remember the simple things hurts the most.
Hovering over this thought triggers another cascade of tears. I nudge
the door open, wincing at the screeching creak that reverberates
from the hinges. Taking in all the familiar things before me wrenches
my heart with pain. The delicate china teapot set. The tiny three-
legged stool I used to use when I was little. The worn out rocking
chair in the corner. Gran’s scruffy baby blue slippers.
I blindly make my way into Gran’s room, flinging myself onto her
bed, breathing in the musky scent of her pillow. Burying my face into
her supple pillow, every now and then, bursts of realisation hit me.
Gran doesn’t remember anything. But my brain, and my heart,
refuses to accept it. The pain just gets worse as reality strikes me
again and again. I feel as if I am in a never-ending nightmare. My
thigh brushes against a textured item. Without so much as a look, I
know what it is. Gran’s straw hat. My breath catches in my throat. It
Straws of
Memories
Grace Yuan
Isobelle Carmody Award
for Creative Writing
Winner
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