Last Memory

• Yura Sin, Grade 6
• Short Story
• 2009

Carefully, I unravel the laden chains and click open the thick, bulky lock.
Instantly, they fall deeper and deeper infinitively. But to me, nothing lasts forever. Like laughter, your favourite strawberry lollypop, the bad sitcom your mother watches daily or the warmth you feel burning in your hand when you stand near your crush. Or even memories. And memories slip away, just when you think you’ve got it, a sweeping moment that is easily dissolved. Finally I hear the chains clash violently onto the rusty, metal frame of my mind that barely holds me together. At last, I stumble to the rectangular box of my most treasured memories, freed from the chains of despair and the lock of sorrow. It breathes, ready to be relived. I close my eyes delicately, but so willing and I can feel my nimble hands reach for the cool, metal latch…

I can feel myself in a different place, a different time because I know I’ve been here before. Even before my eyes flicker open, I feel the scratch of the tanned and cracking leather, spoiled with old caking coffee stains. I immerse myself into that old seat as I breathe in, taking in every scent of the small box my dad called a car. The somehow sweet but bitter smell of coffee ever present in the very heart of the car, or the pungent taste of petrol and pollution wafting through the half opened windows and even, the signature combination of smoke and a hard day’s work lingering in dad’s sweaty and over sized shirt. “Where’ve you been, dreamland?” he laughs warmly, taking his eyes off the road just to catch my fleeting smile. If only. If only I could wake up every day to you. He tunes in to an old song from the seventies, bopping his head along to the beat, singing in a high falsetto. I laugh and join in as I prop myself so that I have a full view of the scenery before me. The vast, cerulean sky dotted and swayed by cirrus clouds that rest on the horizon and the leafy trees that run past us in the distance, along with gentle bumps of the ride itself. But it’s not the scenery I’m looking for; it’s a red car. I can feel my heart drumming through my ears, faster and faster, I reach for my father’s large and callused hand and clench it tightly. His envelopes mine completely as he continues to sing off pitch, oblivious to what I know will happen. A red car darts from nowhere and I close my eyes instantly, ignoring the ache in my heart as I feel the car swerve dangerously. I wait until we halt to a stop. Battered, bruised and deformed. Dad moans in pain as he wipes away the small trickle of blood falling from my cheek. "I love you," he murmurs. We wait for help. We wait for a siren. And I wait for his heartbeat.