Changing Memories

Excellence Award in the 'Spread The Word 2017' competition

I sit up in the trees, my mind discarding feelings of stress if they were ever there. The fading sun creates sombre shadows and specks of afternoon light, all carefully interwoven to create the perfect memory. Subtle, layered tones of green, homemade bunting with languages we don’t recognise and musty smells encompass the tree house. A ladder leads up to the high platform, which holds endless patterns of wooden creases and splinters.
I feel the rigid, rough surface of wrinkles and creases in the wood. My legs are swinging as I kick the hard, dark trunk of the tree which creates movement within the leaves. Small sticks hurt as they poke like needles; they seem to be doing it jokingly and annoyingly. The arm of my cousin feels soft as we sit close together, planning more mischief.
I hear birds calling to each other, like my own voice talking to my excited cousins. We to feel safe but rebellious. The rustle of the canopy of the leaves gets softer as we get louder, and the faint, busy noise of traffic is slowly weakening. The creek is running carefully through a myriad of rocks, sticks, and trees, making a noise that completes nature’s harmony.
The smell of the crumpled, lifeless leaves is cosy and welcoming. Laughter gets louder as we become more immersed in our fun. A taste of salt is present on my tongue as my beach hair blows into my mouth. My hand suddenly slips behind me, but my cousins are quick to help while a wave of relief rushing through my chest. As I’m clambering back up, we admire the hazy, golden hue sunset and close our eyes.
Five short years later, I return to this place which holds so many old ideas and imagination. Fog sifts through the shady leaves, marbling the light below. Without my cousins, the moment has changed. Blurred shadows show that nearby trees are also there. Bunting that is ripped and frayed tangles between the branches and dark jade shades. The dim but peaceful atmosphere weaves between the laughter and playfulness that was once here. The never-ending arrangements of splinters and grooves are prominent, even more so. The many snaps of branches and leaves under my feet release nostalgia as I remember looking at the fresh autumn leaves from years before. I look down at the creek, birds still calling and creating a symphony that they have and always will. The traffic and whisper of the leaves don’t get quieter and I don’t get louder. At this moment, I’m not creating memories, only realisations of how valuable the past really was.

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