The Secret Entity Of Memories

• Chelsea Cannes, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2022

The fragmented rays of golden daylight illuminated the expansive cerulean sky, encapsulating the image of an utterly picturesque spring afternoon. The voice of beauty sighed with boundless consolation, projecting their soul into the reinvigorated fellowship of the natural landscape; illuminating the paths of life in which lost souls venture. The leaves on the Autumn trees in the distance formed a consecutive sequence along the cobblestone pathway, resembling an army of soldiers perfectly aligned as they awaited their lieutenant. But then the memories of the war began to inundate. While the sheer lustre of the modern world glistens, being complemented by rays of sunlight and vast meadows, the distant strident cries of wounded soldiers continue to plague my dreams. Their resonant, mournful tone serves as a forewarning of the agony that will be perpetuated throughout history’s course.

I reminisce... After all these years, his scarf is still here. The delicate fleeces of the fabric brush against my fingertips... feeling its warmth as I drape it around my neck, my astute smile ignited by the mere scent. My father's scarf was my last remembrance of his moribund flame.

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My path is now surrounded by wilted flowers as I walk through the desolate cemetery. I have come to visit my father’s stone, a memory lost within the earth amongst the scattered beads of time.

That faint memory of the meadow, the rays of sunlight, the tranquillity devoid of calamity and strife; those serene snapshots of spring. My mind takes me there. The fragrance of the flowers, the scintillating breeze, the exuberant memories... It was a time to rejoice in the spirit of the captivating world—a time before the war. However, time is but an ephemeral memory. A memory that is framed by the withered flowers and apathetic souls enveloped in the dark midst of life.

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In my hand, I hold a daffodil that my granddaughter gave to me as I rest on my deathbed, just like the one I saw in that meadow. She whispered, with fragmented speech, “they say it’s for good luck and new beginnings,” as delicate tears began to form in her eyes.

I have my father's scarf around my neck, for I could feel his everlasting essence resonate with me. The daffodil and the scarf take me back to a time long past - they have transcended the constraints of time and reality to expose the fabric of my memories, gradually restoring the beams of life that remained distant and hazy for so long. I remembered him with a daffodil in his hand, in that meadow, and those memories have become another testament to his legacy. I hold the daffodil tight, savouring its eternal sweetness as I feel tears plodding down my wrinkled cheek, sensing the warmth of my teacup penetrate through my trembling hands with the endearing aroma of lemongrass enrapturing me into the silent splendour of the natural world.

This is my fervent narrative, for I am the storyteller of this tapestry, articulating my secret entity of memories.