The Storyteller

Its strange how inanimate objects can hold so much. Not in an obvious, literal way, like boxes or chests but in an emotional way. Some objects are like puddles of memories. All you have to do is hold them, dip into them, and the memories flush back into your mind, a mess of vibrant colours sounds and long forgotten sights. 

A young woman rubbed her thumb over the cool, engraved metal lid of a locket and chain someone had once given her. She closed her eyes and scrunched up the grass underneath her toes on a park bench. They juttered at first, creeping out like unsure creatures, from the dormant corners of her mind. Then they began to slip - colours first, sounds and finally pictures and images burst behind her eyelids. 

The light sound of long-forgotten funfair music reeled about in her mind, tumbling and tumbling as she remembered each step she had taken amongst the place. A warmth tickled her wrist in the memory of her grandfather’s comforting and guiding hand. His skin had been like paper and had had a muted roughness that told its own stories of his past. Men on stilts that seemed to extend far into the heavens had astounded her, still holding on in amazement and an unknown giddy mixture of fear and excitement. 

It was at the fair her grandfather had won her the locket. It had shone on the prizes shelf, its silver reflecting the striped banners of the game tent. Not a single coconut was left standing after her grandfather had demolished them. Then, with the greatest smile, a great gleaming, wrinkled smile, he had slipped the chain around her head and lifted her onto his shoulders like a friendly paper giant. 

The sudden sound of a dog barking in its own stupid happiness jolted the memory out of her mind. Her eyes were slightly damp, but there was a smile on her face. The sun beat down on her back as she gathered up her shoes and slipped the locket back into the pocket of her trousers. 

Its strange how inanimate objects can hold so much.