I Remember

• Natalie Bradford-Marshall, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2018

It’s interesting what renews memory; how any aspect of this world can stir the warm feeling of reminiscence.
The rain is what rouses my nostalgia. A gentle shower falls outside, the droplets of water giving life to my tulips. As I stare through the window, the soft patter of the rain rekindles a treasured memory, one that has a tendency to slumber along with the old man whom it belongs to. As the sky weeps, I smile.
Taking an aged hand from the curtain, I let the drapes fall over the glass pane. With some effort, I rise out of my comfortable chair and cross the living room. The glow of the fireplace illuminates the room with a warm light; the crackling embers filling the quiet of the space, save for the rain from outside. I take hold of a framed photograph from the mantelpiece, brushing the small remnants of dust away with my thumb.
From the faded image, I see a man of modest attire, though not a recent friend of youth, but a face from earlier days. His smile is natural, as he laughs at the lively puppy in his arms.
It was raining when we met. Except it had been a cold, dreary evening. The sky was crying; rain pelting down onto the dark, gloomy streets, devoid of colour. A man of middle-age plodded through the puddles across the cobbled road. With his head bent down (as is the loner’s norm), he watched all the couples and passers-by; his unanswered longing kept to his isolated self. With only an umbrella, he trudged through the pouring weather.
As the man rounded a corner, his ears began to tune to the desperate wailing that echoed down the dismal road. A doleful whine, like a remorseful spirit lost under the rain’s miserable spell. Knowing that the lonely company of his empty house was all that awaited him, the man pursued the cry, letting his curiosity overtake his desire for shelter.
Soon he came upon a light from the shadows; the only sun in that sombre world. And underneath the glowing lamppost, nestled in a cardboard prison, trembled a small, pitiful puppy.
Her golden fur was soaked, as she forlornly howled into the night. But her eyes were what melted the man’s heart most; eyes filled with a desperate plea to be saved from loneliness. Lifting her carefully, he placed the puppy inside his coat, close to the beating of his newly captured heart.
A sleepy moan brings me back to the present. Returning the photograph, I turn toward the large, furry shape on the carpet. My faithful old dog sighs in her contented sleep, as she stretches her paws toward the warmth of the fireplace. I settle into my cosy armchair, before extending a wrinkled hand to lovingly stroke her soft fur. She slowly raises her head, and places her greying muzzle over my slippers.
I smile, for a house is not a home without a loved one.