3 views
Once Upon A Time...
#WritcoStoryPrompt36
You passed like the wind, unperceived.
Like the summer leaving out of the blue. Taking with you all the warmth and love—and the memories.
Who are you again?
I can smell you around but—I can't see your face anymore. I can hear your laughter bouncing from the hallway walls, your footsteps, the feel of your rough hands against my skin—your whispers during cold, stormy nights when I couldn't sleep.
When the monsters in my head were awake, cackling and taunting.
"Tell me a story." I always ask you.
And there, you finally open that old desk with a locked drawer. You never leave it open for me to peak in. You said —"This drawer is a door to a different place." But where is it, is always the question. You smile at me and eventually, pull out a book—and you start to read.
"Once upon a time..."
I can remember the tremor in your voice. The mischief and excitement laced with your radiating energy. The scratchy noise of old age—a music I never got tired of. You drowned me in fairytales—in horses and carpets flying, in animals and flowers talking, in princess's and princes, in fairy godmothers working towards the main character's happy ever after.
You made me hope this life has more to offer than bitterness.
Then one summer, I failed to visit. And the next, and the next...and the next one. I always anticipated seeing you. Anticipated the thrill of your stories and your voice and your warmth.
But when I came again, there is only the ghost of you to meet.
In a jar, with your name engraved on a tarpaulin and your picture above the words..
"In loving memory of"
I'm a broken mirror without you.
I could open all the old locked box in the attic, flip all album of pictures there and still—nothing could compare to you.
To those magical summers of lying in your bed, smelling like old age, surrounded by the scent of your tea and the white hair that sat on your head.
The last summer you were still here and I'm still a child whining about chocolates and fairies stealing tooth under my pillow.
But the most precious one is...
When you let me open the locked drawer and gave me your book—the one you always open to read me a story. You said...
"I'm giving you my world."
Your world.
I didn't understood what you meant. A book? Your world? How could that be? I was even baffled to find out it was empty when I flipped the pages one by one.
Your world is—empty? Is that it?
Where are the stories you told me? Do they really exist? Or—were all of them just mere lies? I wanted to be angry at you. Throw the book away, burn it, or tear it apart
But I couldn't. You said it was your world.
And your world is happiness, warmth and laughter. Your world is comfort, love and joy.
Your world is my respite.
How could I ever throw something I want to be a part of?
So, I imprinted myself in your world. I wrote in your book—until the pages started to bleed with story. Now, I'm forever a part of your world.
I can't remember your face anymore.
But I can remember your voice telling me.
"My world is where you are happy."
You didn't lie about your stories, grandma. You created them. Your world is endless. Perhaps—you are living in a fairytale of your own creation now.
"I will too."
And here I am, a writer. Becoming the very person that you were.
© astaire_grey
🥀
#story #writcostorychallenge
You passed like the wind, unperceived.
Like the summer leaving out of the blue. Taking with you all the warmth and love—and the memories.
Who are you again?
I can smell you around but—I can't see your face anymore. I can hear your laughter bouncing from the hallway walls, your footsteps, the feel of your rough hands against my skin—your whispers during cold, stormy nights when I couldn't sleep.
When the monsters in my head were awake, cackling and taunting.
"Tell me a story." I always ask you.
And there, you finally open that old desk with a locked drawer. You never leave it open for me to peak in. You said —"This drawer is a door to a different place." But where is it, is always the question. You smile at me and eventually, pull out a book—and you start to read.
"Once upon a time..."
I can remember the tremor in your voice. The mischief and excitement laced with your radiating energy. The scratchy noise of old age—a music I never got tired of. You drowned me in fairytales—in horses and carpets flying, in animals and flowers talking, in princess's and princes, in fairy godmothers working towards the main character's happy ever after.
You made me hope this life has more to offer than bitterness.
Then one summer, I failed to visit. And the next, and the next...and the next one. I always anticipated seeing you. Anticipated the thrill of your stories and your voice and your warmth.
But when I came again, there is only the ghost of you to meet.
In a jar, with your name engraved on a tarpaulin and your picture above the words..
"In loving memory of"
I'm a broken mirror without you.
I could open all the old locked box in the attic, flip all album of pictures there and still—nothing could compare to you.
To those magical summers of lying in your bed, smelling like old age, surrounded by the scent of your tea and the white hair that sat on your head.
The last summer you were still here and I'm still a child whining about chocolates and fairies stealing tooth under my pillow.
But the most precious one is...
When you let me open the locked drawer and gave me your book—the one you always open to read me a story. You said...
"I'm giving you my world."
Your world.
I didn't understood what you meant. A book? Your world? How could that be? I was even baffled to find out it was empty when I flipped the pages one by one.
Your world is—empty? Is that it?
Where are the stories you told me? Do they really exist? Or—were all of them just mere lies? I wanted to be angry at you. Throw the book away, burn it, or tear it apart
But I couldn't. You said it was your world.
And your world is happiness, warmth and laughter. Your world is comfort, love and joy.
Your world is my respite.
How could I ever throw something I want to be a part of?
So, I imprinted myself in your world. I wrote in your book—until the pages started to bleed with story. Now, I'm forever a part of your world.
I can't remember your face anymore.
But I can remember your voice telling me.
"My world is where you are happy."
You didn't lie about your stories, grandma. You created them. Your world is endless. Perhaps—you are living in a fairytale of your own creation now.
"I will too."
And here I am, a writer. Becoming the very person that you were.
© astaire_grey
🥀
#story #writcostorychallenge
