his words | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: his words | Previous Challenge Entry
By belinda macalister
04/07/08
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The memory is like a small child walking along the seashore. You can never tell what small pebble it will pick up and store among its treasured things. To those watching on, the glorified pebble might seem, dull and incompetent in comparison to the enormity of the beach surrounding it, but to the child, it is the ultimate pinnacle of beauty. Carved and worn by the ocean’s tireless waves it captivates them for hours, intriguing their naïve curiosity.
Well when I look back on the early years of my childhood, very few memories dictate my mind with clarity. It’s funny the things one’s mind chooses to remember and what it chooses to discard; like those superfluous pebbles thrown into the ocean, they sinks to join the thousands of others to be consumed by the depths of the of one’s memory, never to be seen again.
Now that I am older and left most of my childhood behind I have few memories of my past and that little of that sandy-haired creature that now only stares out at me from photographs and distant half-forgotten memories. No, know I barely remember who that child is, and my pockets that were once overflowing with the memories of the past are all but empty now. Most have fallen away, unwanted baggage that only make the journey along those shores harder to bear. But I still have my pebbles. Small, insignificant glimpses of a world beyond the shore, a world I have now left. And sometimes, times when the creeping darkness of my loneliness threatens to consume me and the voices of doubt in my head reach defining levels, I bring them out. Time when I feel I have nothing left to give, I fish them out of the deep storehouse of my soul and I stare into their smoothed surfaces. I look deep into their enchanting shells and for those brief minutes of serenity, those few seconds of peace, I can smile as the devastation around me fades and I almost feel as if I could be that young child again. In those times, I can sometimes catch a glimpse of that time, that girl so long ago, elbow deep in mud and eyes wide with wonder, those beautiful moments in which my whole world could be as simple and beautiful as a wave-beaten pebble.
As a child growing up I rarely pondered on my past, I was to rapt up in the excitement of the future and enrapt within the captivating, safe confinements of the present. But now more so then ever as the walls of my once stable world has started to crumble, and all that I had called my life has been swept from underneath me, I’ve been looking into my past with new found intensity, and no memory is more clear nor more livid in my mind than that of my grandparents house.
I remember their house and its large welcoming rooms. I remember the floral sheets and the towels that always smelt of lavender. I remember smell of my grandfather’s aftershave and I remember the sound of his voice. I remember sitting all curled up in his lap, allowing his beautiful words to wash over me. I knew not what half of them meant, nor did I care their beauty and captivating wonder dwelt in their untouchable obscurity. Their meaning was beyond me, but I dreamed that I would one day craft such words, words that created a world all of their own, and encased in the warmth of his embrace I had no reason to believe I couldn’t.
Yes I remember that house. I remember its walls, and its vast kitchen with its delicious smells. I remember the garden and its roses and the boots lined up against the wall. I remember those days spent under the sun and those nights around the dinner table but most of all I remember those words. Because sometimes in life we leave things behind, sometimes no matter how much we wish it could be otherwise we lose things we never meant to lose, and in those times it is our memories, those smooth wave beaten pebbles that give us the strength to go on.
As I’ve gotten older there are things that I have left behind, but I will always remember that house; that house and that man who spoke of wonder and beauty and showed me the world. My grandfather.

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