In a quaint little room with walls painted a delicate pink, the music of years gone by played softly in the background, while a little old woman returned to her childhood, with pictures of the past. A collection of photographs were laid out on a small table in the corner of the room. Along with them, a pair of scissors, decorative paper and some paste.
Now, this old lady was never one to do things the 'normal' way. All through her teenage years this girl made sure that she was noticed for being different, for being a trendsetter, and now, even in her old age, she still searched for ways to express herself in ways that were not adopted by many people. In a world that was dominated by computers and technology, where graphic images were taken digitally and processed the same way, where photo albums could be accessed over the internet leaving no mess behind, sat this little, old woman pasting her photographs, her memories, in a neatly kept scrapbook.
The woman was always one for reminiscing. She kept souvenirs from everywhere that she ever visited. All of her treasures were of significant importance to the old lady, but these particular photographs, these photos were sacred. They told tales of a life that not many people in this world have ever had the opportunity to explore. She was one of the lucky ones, for she was chosen.
She scanned the table for one picture in particular and smiled warmly when her eyes had come upon it. With her brittle fingertips, she gently touched the faces of each young child portrayed in a still-life. A moment captured in time, each of them looking exactly as she remembered. The athlete, the rebel, the worrywart, the innocent, the genius, the princess, the delicate, and the understanding children all looked back at her as they used to and she remembered as she pasted the shot in her scrapbook.
Tears came from her eyes and met her cheek as she recalled her time with them. Times that she could never regain. Times that she would always miss. Yet in the same, smiles spread across her face as she remembered the soccer games, the concerts, the shopping sprees, the picnics, the adventures. Calling each memory back in her mind, she relived them all, as she pasted them down on the pages.
The woman worked diligently, yet carefully on this project. After all, this was her life that she was dealing with. As time wound down, and the pictures became fewer and fewer, the woman was sorry that she was nearly complete. She thrived on the memories and she was reliving a journey that she couldn't bare to let end for a third time. Unfortunately, she knew as well as most people that all good things had to come to an end, so after she had pasted the last picture down on the pages of her book, she reluctantly shut the cover.
As day came to a close, the light in quaint pink room faded, the music of yesteryears wound down to a close, leaving only silence and a fatigued husband came home from a long day to find his wife sobbing gently over the table in the corner of the room. The man tiptoed quietly to a spot beside his wife, sat down in the next chair and laid a gentle hand over that of his weeping wife.
"Mimi, what's wrong?" her husband asked.
"Nothing Matt." she dried her eyes as her gaze met his. "I was just looking at some old pictures."
"Why were you crying sweetheart?" the husband asked.
"I'm afraid that I will forget, that these photos are the only things left to remind us of days gone by." she replied quietly.
"You're wrong darling. The memories that we have will never fade away, for they are looked within the corners of our mind. All you have to do to remember is call them back." he told her.
"But..." the old woman started.
"The photos that are pasted in your scrapbook may fade, tear, become worn, may be lost, but the memories that are pasted in your mind and in your heart will remain there forever and will never lose their grip and the love that I have for you shall remain in my heart for even longer.
"Oh Matt." Mimi whimpered.
"Come now darling, let us go to bed." Matt said, as he took hold of his wife's hand and lead her down the hallway. As he came back down the hall to turn off the light that remained, he quickly flipped through the pages of the scrapbook and smiled. Then, he made his way back to his room.
The open book lay on the table in complete darkness. A photo of eight young children lay face up, pasted to a page. A memory of the past, pasted in time.
THE END
~MPF