Hallways | duskfall
But the scrambled eggs are there
In the remains of the day, I seek solace in nature. There is respite here, respite from the confounding portraits that line the halls. That’s your Auntie Di. The bright sun warms my face, and for a moment, time suspends its march.
As evening descends, casting its’ soft hues upon the world, I retreat to the solitude of my room. Within its familiar walls, I immerse myself in the fragments of a life well-lived.
A life, as I am told, that was well lived. Photographs, letters, polished boxes. All as relics from a past that flickers in and out of focus. I trace my fingers over the faded ink, the faces frozen in time, clinging to these fragments that bridge widening gap of recollection. In the morning my dreams dissipate like morning mist. But the scrambled eggs are there, solid and buttery and smooth. I swing my legs out of the window, and look at a shaft of sunlight on the balcony tiles. I taste school mornings and paper bag lunches and Mum’s cuddles. These are memories, strong visceral memories amidst the encroaching shadows of forgetting.
