Solely her Memories

February 17, 2011
By SJWriter BRONZE, Grimsby, Other
SJWriter BRONZE, Grimsby, Other
4 articles 0 photos 0 comments

She was a very slight infant; her hair iridescent, yet restrained within its shine,tenacious ricochets sprouting amongst her wide-eyed visage. Her baby blues
flocked many, keen to indulge in the array of infantile innocence she effortlessly portrayed.

When the sun beamed, she and Mummy walked to the park: her favourite
place. It was a winding journey, down the pebbled street, voyaging through the stingy, trolley-filled rear of Safeway, past the dentists’, the dreaded place
of her childhood, and through the unkempt and bushy passage which finally lead into bustling Pudsey, worthy of the wait. Here, she could fully express herself…mentally alone yet never physically due to her youth and gaucheness. As a keen learner, topples were frequent and invited endless sniffles, soaking onto her toes and through to my fuchsia, gel-like features. I knew the immediate response. Embraces from Mummy soon followed, of course, but with these accidents came the permanent injury and bruise of my soles – skin which would never recover.

By now, my mud-bottomed cadaver would be low in endurance. Rubbing her eyes, the recent mishap now a mere memory, she would immerge from the concrete, galloping swing-wards. There, I feared, as always, that my nose would take a battering, the blushed gel shattering, splitting. Every touch-down was a bemusing knock and this torture seemed to pursue for hours, (looking back, perhaps I was over-reacting…) the sting of the friction was burning,wearing away at my somewhat insignificant foundation. Every visit to the park
invited endless spins on the roundabout and with each rotation, a new scratch developed on my buckle and made dizziness inevitable. Again. Again. Her
smile glistened, widening, her glee visible, parading a miniscule set of teeth,two of which were absent. Mummy had placed these treasures in a miniature,turquoise drawstring sack under her pillow the night before, vowing that ‘The Tooth Fairies’ would collect them during the night. I had overheard this from my usual situate, under the wooden structure of her bed, amongst the monsters and ghouls she had once, quite convincingly, sworn were festering there. In the morning, the yawning toddler would wake to find a silver coin in their place. This concept plagued the infant’s mind for years to come. Granddad used to say it was ‘magic’.

At roughly six years old, she would spend every Friday evening with Grandma and Granddad which was always viewed as a highlight amid the time spent at school. I lay in the sapphire Renault, waiting to be kicked by my foe: the black,cotton school pump: the essence of conformity. Eventually, I was tugged on during the undulating twenty-minute-drive through Yorkshire. Firstly, Grandma
would order fish and chips from that same restaurant whilst Granddad conversed to a friend from the club, who more often than not commented on how fast the grandchildren were growing. The off-white tiles covered the
undersized take-out area, which always seemed smaller somehow. Although subtle, the stench was immediately recognisable, even from the car.Quite often, Grandma would buy her grandchildren a strawberry lollipop for dessert which I remember once tasting on my pink rubber-like face. Tears soon gushed, however, erasing the sticky remnants – it was a considerable
change to my usual sludge-seasoned meals and so I was not grateful to have the flavour immediately disconnected. Afterwards, Granddad continued onwards towards that same too-full car park overlooking the airport. She absolutely loved this; the excitement was apparent by the clicking of her toes and the sway of her black-skirted calves as we parked. I could see her enjoyment and awe by the sheer twinkle in her ogle and the extension of her
cherry orifice. Aeroplanes darted from every direction, closer and closer still, the roar, although expected, was increasingly shocking each time. Blinking lights bounced off the wings; those small rectangular windows, the propelling
rounded noses, the smooth landings: this was the image that she adored. The few morsels I collated, due to her enthusiasm, were fatty, vinegar-bathed – luckily this was a rare occurrence as she simply did not spill in Granddad’s car.

Soon after one of these evenings, I was regrettably… disposed of. Her petite dendrites, admittedly, had wriggled to the tip of my sole and it was clearly time for a new start. Later that same day, I was replaced by a phony pair of magenta sandals which I instantly despised. They were her obvious preference; I could tell by the spiralling wonderment in her expression when
she set her broadened eyes on the cherry adversary.


The author's comments:
A light-hearted true story about an infant and her jelly shoes.

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