Memories

 

I’m walking. Down this same old road I walk every day of my life. Heading in the same direction, same place, and same time. Just a different reason.

I sigh heavily into the cold, pulling my sleeves over my freezing hands. My hair whips past my ears in the wind, a scratching sound in my ear. The beat of my feet on the floor falls into time with the scratching.

The music of life begins to play in my head, adding tune to the beat. I hum softly, improvising. Crescendo.

The darkness springs to life as my memories begin to move to the beat.

 

Friends walk, their feet in time with mine. They stop by the river, talking quietly, just shadows in my memory. She falls over, and laughs. He stops to help her up… their hands clasp together and they drift away on the breeze.

I keep walking, smiling gently. Stones crunch together under my feet. The song I have created continues to play.

 

A group of shadows play in the fading light. Young children, five of them. Pushing and laughing. Their voices are lost in my song, their laughter drowned in the past. One of them stops and stares at the river.

I stop beside the shadow. She stares into the water, and I follow her gaze. She reaches down and brushes the surface of the water with her fingers of air. She looks straight through me, up at the rising moon. She smiles as she fades back into the darkness.

 

I stand and stare at the full moon, majestic and magical. That same smile plays on my lips, and I bend down and brush the surface of the water. Time has no meaning.

 

I feel the song rise again, sounding out my hope. The washing of the river on the bank adds to the amazing percussion of the world around me.

More shadows, this time sombre. They sit at the bench in front of me. I stop, and join them. He sits, holding her. Protecting her against the cold, and from the darkness. She stares into the eyes I cannot see. Those shadows are joined, no clarity between the two figures. She leans in closer, resting her head on his shoulder. I do the same, resting my head on the shoulder of the shadow. The music stops. Silence. He dissipates, slowly. Small particles of darkness drifting away, combining with hers in the drenching light of the moon.

 

My head falls through the shadow, my eyes closed. I lay on the bench for a minute, just thinking. I shift, trying to get comfortable, but my jumper catches on the bench, tugging at me, willing me on. The music returns.

 

I walk past more shadows, more darkness. So many memories along one small road. Shapes become more intelligible, faces recognisable. Two figures sit on the wall as I walk past, and one rises. A girl.

 

I stop, confused. It stares straight at me. Lifeless eyes, orbs with one focus. Sound comes from its invisible mouth. It hums a song, in tune with mine. Sad, melodious, melancholy.

The beat pushes me on, the shadow following my step, in time with my every movement. Touches my shoulder, and points.

 

Other shadows, all the same. Rising from their thoughts alone, or splitting from their groups or couples. The melody rises, up beyond the cloudless sky. Up towards the heavens.

 

As a marching band, an army of shadows, I lead them. Along this same old road, this same old way. Pass all my memories, all my experiences. Past time and space. This music becomes my world.

 

I reach the end.

 

The river widens, and I stand on the bridge. I stop as the music ceases. I mentally reach for the part of me that created it, wishing for it to return, but it does not. That part of me is gone.

 

My fingers are clumsy, as I climb the edge. My freezing fingers clasp the note I had written, and I place it on the edge. The shadows are drawn to it, and touch it in awe. Then they return to my side. Ghostly fingers grab my ankles, my wrists, my arms. Wrap themselves around me in a last embrace. Ghostly glowing eyes meet mine.

 

As one, we jump. As one, we fall. As one, my memories and I become nothing.

 

I drift into the darkness.

Reviews

[Charles D. Moorer]

This is an excellent piece of writing. I am reminded of Edgar Allen Poe who said that there is something very beautiful in sadness and sorrow. You have capture the essence of his writing in this piece. Check your spelling, one error I saw: recognisable

[Genevieve Walsh]

So lovely. Every part of it. It made me cry; your writing is beautiful and haunting.