I hadn’t been to my maternal grandparents’ house in years. I had vague memories of it, flashes, moments that had burrowed themselves in the deep recesses of my brain. This is the story of my last time in that house.
Read More: Celestial Interference
That visit, a little more than a year ago, was under circumstances I wished had never come to be. My grandmother had passed just a couple of days ago, and we were at the house to put things together and pick up some stuff. I have dealt with the passing of important people in my life in the past, but as I stepped into the house, I didn’t quite know how to reconcile her passing. The passing of someone, who wasn’t necessarily a part of my day-to-day life, but was inextricably bound to the fibres of my being.
But the home I stepped into was at odds with the one I remembered. This was the house that bore the pain of the passing of both my grandparents. Its beauty and simplicity mired in darkness and pain. As I set foot into the house with my mother and brother by my side, I felt the pain embrace my sense of being; it wasn’t one that wanted to cause me hurt, it was one that just wanted to be felt. I despised the fact that this would be the last memory of a place that held such value to me.
But all of that changed with a small token of the past. As I stepped into the living room, I was met by my brother. In his hand, was a small figurine; a giraffe. He handed it to me, I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was along the lines of, “I don’t know why, but I feel like this has something to do with you.” I looked at the small, wooden toy and took it in my hand. For a moment I was blank, before a powerful memory came rushing back to me.
I was no more than maybe 4 or 5 years old, I was sitting on the floor of the living room, playing with the giraffe. My grandfather was seated by the window, reading the newspaper; it was early morning. Somewhere, behind me, I heard my grandmother say something. I don’t remember what it was, but her voice still rings true in my mind. It isn’t a long memory, no more than 5 or 6 seconds and I can’t even say for sure that it’s real. But it was and is a powerful memory. More powerful than the pain I felt being in the house, almost 20 years later.
Read More: Manufacturing Happier Times
As we walked out of the house, I kept my hand in my pocket, tightly gripping the giraffe. It wasn’t just a trinket or a toy, it was a token that linked me to my grandparents. A token not steeped in sadness and loss, but one that harkened back to a day I didn’t remember existed till I sought true connection with them. While the house still stands, accumulating dust in the dark, it is not so in my memory.
In my mind it is full of light, pristine and immaculate. It is not an echo chamber for lives gone by, it is a treasure trove. A treasure trove of my grandfather’s measured words of wisdom, my grandmother’s rapid Bangla and almost aggressive loving; both of which I see shades of in my mother from time to time.
All of that goodness, that beauty, stored safe in a little wooden giraffe.
Read Next: Time Heals All Wounds
Do you have a toy or a trinket that means the world to you? What is it? Drop a comment below and let us know!
We're also accepting guest writers. If you would like to be featured on our website, Contact Us and also make sure you're following us on Facebook and Instagram!