10X10X10
issue 3
| 05/31/08: Issue 3
Memories Are Portable
The balcony overlooked the forest, and all the trees were locked in August; shades of red and brown. The chill air was as sharp as the cutting edge of time, and she welcomed it as she retreated from the balcony and lay on her bed, feeling the cold caress her with a certain longing. How long it had been. She had missed that, in Africa, where the dust was orange, red, sandy powder, abrasive, rubbed over everything by the winds -- yet there were few soft edges in Africa. So she welcomed the chill, and fell asleep, letting it help her forget. She dreams of the sunsets in Malaysia, and the blue of Thailand's ocean. She watches the carnivals in Brazil, and slips through the night markets of Asia. She walks along a dusty road in the heart of Africa, and then she is locked in her old bedroom, grounded, with only the red brown forest visible from the window. She awoke in the morning with the sun shining through the billowing gauze. Climbing out of bed, the dream still haunting her, she self-consciously wandered through her parents' house, so empty now, so sad, down to her old room, untouched on the third floor. Jewelry boxes in the shapes of the horses on a merry-go-round decorate the shelves, exactly as they had been, the haunting ghosts of two decades ago. A white dresser with an oval mirror lay in the corner, reflecting in it the bed, which was made up like a work of art with pink and white cushions sprinkled on top like marshmallows. Beside the window lay her old toy chest. She walked over to it, almost forgetting herself, almost being dragged back in time, and opened it to reveal that it was empty. Just a facade. Sadly she stepped back, letting it slam shut, and left, closing the door to her old room so gently behind her, as if not to disturb the memories, as if to let them sleep. They had wanted her to keep this house, once they were gone, and raise her family here, where generations had been before, come and gone. The dream, her old room, they brush through her thoughts, as she slips back up to the guest room on the fourth floor and picks up her phone. “Sarah, how are you coping?” “Fine -- I miss them. This place is too big, too empty, too quiet.” “Do you want us to come over?” he asks her. “No, no -- no, I'll be coming back. I know they would be mad at me, but I think we should sell it.” “As long as you're sure.” “I am.” “May I ask what made you change your mind?” “It's just bricks, Frank.” “And all the memories?” “This place is too big, and it has too much room for thick, deep roots. Little by little you become part of the bricks and hang heavy in the air of the rooms, until you are just a picture hanging on the wall. All the memories -- memories are portable, dear.” The conversation drifted awhile. When she was done she walked over to the balcony and closed the French doors, showered, changed, and packed her bag. She walked down the stairs, running her hand down the rail, and strode defiantly out of the house with her bag thrown over her shoulder, just as she had done when she was seventeen.
Graeme S. Houston has had work rejected by Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Grasslimb, Strange Horizons, GUD, Shimmer, and Pedestal Magazine, among many others. This year he is aiming for 300 rejections. He hails from Scotland, though whether or not he can be found there depends on the weather. His website can be found here, and he can be contacted here.
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