Memoria

Memories, for me, range from Polaroid-like snapshots to short video clips in my head. I know, it's weird when you think about it. These scenes, short and long, remain buried in the fatty tissue of my brain until a sound, smell or photo reignites my memory of the event. The images dance around as I try to piece together the what I am actually remembering. Sometimes the image fades, and sometimes it hangs around, leaving behind feelings of longing, regret, and nostalgia. I was in my parent’s garage recently when I came across a small wooden case that my father had made me in primary school. Here it was, intact, on a pile of old junk near my dad’s tools. Seeing it for the first time in decades brought back my first day at primary school. Something had happened to that case, though, but I couldn't figure out why. All I could remember was that somehow it got broken. Bit by bit, over the months, memories started coming back to me. The following story, My Suitcase, is the bits and pieces of memory I