A Map of Memories 🗺️

This descriptive piece is a sample following the plan created in tip #2.

Thud! I plopped a heavy leather trunk- the colour of soot onto my pearl-white wooden desk, ready to take a trip down memory lane. The sullen sky sent showers down upon my house, locking me in to do some spring cleaning. As the water trickled and splashed to a rhythm, I snapped open the brass hinges on the trunk and managed to pry it open with much force. A thin fossil-grey layer of dust masked the secrets beneath. With a sweep of my index finger, thousands of dusty dancers were propelled into the air, revealing a crumpled, faded photograph before me.

At first glance, I knew exactly what the yellowed, sepia paper was. It was worn; torn with lines randomly running all over its glossy surface, like a map. My heart danced with glee as I was transported into my grandfather's old room. The perfect angle captured the russet panelled floor bestrewn with traces of sawdust and chipped wood; springing up like the quills of a porcupine. I was also able to see the familiar egg-white ceiling and walls from which cracked patches of paint hung like cocoons. The room in the photograph was fairly large but brim-filled with typical old man's clutter, outdated furniture and precious collectables. In a dimly lit alcove, quietly sat an oak-wood desk and a tattered chair neatly tucked in. A beige tweed coat cloaked the chair, shading its faults. On the centre of the desk lay a neat pile of filing papers and a half-empty bottle of ink. The silhouette of a pack of cigars was faintly visible, but I could vividly smell the familiar smoky aroma that used to waft through this room.

In the centre of the room loomed a large bed. It was swaddled in soft bellflower blue sheets. I recalled the threadbare quilt laying on the edge of the bed- one that was handmade for him by my grandma but was redolent of an acrid, musty odour. A detailed headboard was planted behind it. Intricate designs were delicately engraved but filled with dust in the unreachable crevices. The chocolate brown wood was the same as the wooden bookshelf- a unique piece of furniture the camera was able to capture.

Though a glare of light struck the camera lens, hiding the details of that bookshelf, I was able to visualise it. A towering bookcase was planted beside a cruddy window pierced by the luminous rays of the sun, perfectly filling the sun-kissed side of the room. Olive-green, canary yellow and maroon leather books of varying heights and widths crammed the shelves, each fighting for its chance to be noticed by a reader. A deluge of memories of the golden titles woven into the spines of the books came flooding back. Suddenly, I noticed the outline of a tiny, cream-white box resting on his shelves beside a gilded hourglass; all the sand settled placidly at the bottom, stewed cherry picture frames blanketed by soot and an incense stick spiralling wispy billow into the air.

Simply staring at the picture allowed the fragrant aroma of cinnamon and pumpkin to drift up my nose. The tiny box on the shelves was a box of mints. Moths fluttered in my stomach as I remembered my grandfather lovingly offering me one of those sticky white pellets clinging to the bottom of the glinting pebble-grey tin. With the taste of mint lingering on the tip of my tongue, my greasy palm wiped a salty tear running down my face. A rock grew in my stomach when it hit me. I was never going to feel the warmth of a simple old man again. I was never going to enter his room to hear the sharp, monotonous 'tick-tock

of the antique grandfather's clock, nor the creaking of the squeaky floorboards. I was never going to play with his petite ship in the bottle or platinum Roman pocket watch

.

As the air ripened with the pleasant, dewy petrichor of a post-rain afternoon, I set the picture aside carefully, treasuring it, for all I had was a map of memories.