Memory Box

Memory Box

Some of my earliest memories are memories with you,
how you would bring me along to pick up Rita from school.
I remember how it would take my whole fist just to hold
on to one of your fingers, your hands were that big.

When I was six years old I went on a school trip to the beach,
I put my glasses inside my lunch bag for safe keeping
but it turned out that my teacher couldn’t distinguish between
a banana and a banana skin and threw my bag in the bin.

I remember, coming home with an apologetic note from school
in one hand and a fusion of blurry vision and migraine in the other,
on hearing my misfortune, you silently mounted your rusty old bike
and you were gone, my knight on a mission riding through the night.

The next morning sure enough, there on the coffee table were
my little red glasses, like there were never gone. You muttered
that I mustn’t have looked hard enough, they weren’t hard to find,
but I saw it, that smug little smile hiding behind your newspaper.

That was the moment that taught me unconditional love, I still
have those glasses in a memory box and I’ll always remember.

By Romina Writes

She/Her Made In Portugal Based in Manchester, UK Bilingual BA Creative Writing @ UoB Poet/Fiction Writer/Freelance Editor Sub-editor for The Bolton Review issues 7 & 8. 'Half Moon' selected for The New Writing Showcase 2019. ‘Trouble’ and ‘If I Knew Then What I Know Now’ selected for The New Writing Showcase 2020.

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