I Remember...

• Rachel Manderson, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2011

As I looked out at the open expanse of green I thought not of the garden I was standing in now but a garden of my past. It was not the wind that made me shiver but the strength and distance of my memory. I could hear the laughter, the squeals, all the sounds of happy children. I saw clearly the square paved stones making a rough path across the garden, a place she always loved. To another looking in they would be meaningless but not to me. To me they were endless sources of joy. I spent so much of my childhood fighting those stones, I was up for the challenge. As my eyes drifted further from the white weatherboard house I could see the younger me testing, trying to see how far I could get away, I used to take a step, pause and then again until the fear overwhelmed me. As I grew older my steps got bigger but it was still the same. The corners of her garden were unknown and I would explore as far as I dared before running back up the stairs onto the balcony into the warm embrace of a hug from someone I love.
Past that I saw a shadow, a glimpse of movement, heading as always towards that tree. It lived through so much, it always withstood the beatings my siblings and I gave it every time we climbed, climbed so high we thought we could see the whole world. This tree had lived for another before us, it was not only our hands that had reached high up into the branches, not only our legs that had descended covered in bites, no we could not own this. My father was the child that climbed and climbed for his whole childhood. He took us back there to where he grew up, he shared with us the joys of his past that are now my joys, my past. I know that our tree would’ve stayed standing for another generation of Manderson’s but it was not to be. That garden, that carefree child is not something I can bring back. I will never be able to show my children how fun it all was. That garden lives only in my memory and the memory of my family.
I turn and can see a house that was built on love, I can see the bigger picture now, looking back, but nine year old me, I never appreciated what I had. I loved the time we spent there but in my mind it was always less than perfect. Back then I hated that the house was old, I complained all the time. I never stopped to think that it didn’t matter, I never knew that it might be the last happy memory of my Gran. I couldn’t see the future, I was too busy grumbling about the scratchy carpet, the fragmented heating, the table that was too small for all of us. I remember that but deep down I know that I’m not the same anymore. In my head I know that Gran loved me anyway, that she loved me no matter what, but I still hate the fact that I never spent more time there, in the kitchen, truly the heart of her home, in her room, in her garden where her spirit lived within the flowers. I can see the deep brown wooden buffet that lined the hallway. The glass stones she kept in a bowl, they reflected the beauty of the house and its occupant. I remember the smell of the grey lead lines Gran would draw on the wall, we’d stand and she would draw it across the tops of our heads. I can’t forget standing there one last time, trying to pull that little girl and her grandma back out of the past, that piece of wall was proof we both existed, but now it’s nowhere to be found.
I can see the joy on Gran’s face as we stepped out of the car, she was always there waiting, always. Until there was no one opening the door from the inside. The house had a cold empty feeling but I never remember it as that place, because she’d never want me to, she’d hope that the house which we both love was the one I remember. As the wind cools it brings me back to reality, I know that as hard as I hold onto that place, that time, it will escape from me. The wind wraps me in a chilling hug but the rain is warm because I remember that love and even when I don’t I know that it is inside of me, so that’s where I’ll go looking.