No one ever said that forgetting everything would be easy. Sometimes your life pursues you and you can't escape it. Maybe that's precisely the problem trying to forget because the only truth is that we are our memories and each and every one of them...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Belfast, Ireland
*Crack*
Within seconds, I felt the familiar cobblestone road under my feet. I turned around, and there stood the familiar cottage I had called home.
They say home is where the heart is. Ever since a piece of my heart shattered within me the day I discovered my parents passed, there was a strange sensation arriving here and laying eyes on a place that held so many happy memories.
As I walked up towards the aged white picket fence, a sign I had crafted in primary school that read "Clan Odair" hung there. I placed my hand on the waist-high fence and felt an overwhelming sensation of deja vu.
Of the numerous times, I would come home from a trip with Fig and Miriam. I would always see my parents eagerly waiting for my arrival to welcome me home.
I walked up the path, reminiscing about the many memories of Mum and Dad. They always enjoyed sitting outside on a bench in the garden, surrounded by a sea of wildflowers, including clovers, foxgloves, primroses, and shamrocks. The green hedges created a secluded atmosphere, with a fire pit in the middle.
We would spend many summer nights outside enjoying the wood crackling sound and smell of the wood burning smoke; how I longed for those nights.
Just as I reached the white weathered door, attempting to find the strength to turn the copper doorknob, allowing us access inside. I stood there for a moment and glanced over to Fig. His face was seemingly brave, but in his eyes, you could see the sadness as this moment would forever be a core memory for both of us.
"Are you ready?" Fig asked gently, his voice soft and understanding. He placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze to pass on some of his strength to me.
Turning the doorknob and pushing the door open, we stepped inside. The quiet was almost haunting, sending chills down my spine.
The home was always active, whether Mum worked from home on occasion or Dad always had vinyl spinning on the phonograph; he enjoyed music very much. But not a single sound came from anywhere in the home that day; it was almost eerie and haunting.
Fig followed behind me as I stepped foot into the quiet and eerily silent home. He took notice of the absence of my parents' usual belongings, and a pang of sadness hit him.
He watched as I made my way around the ground level, walking into every room and searching for any sign of what had happened.
I walked downstairs thinking that everything was just a nightmare and that Mum would appear back home or Dad would walk through the front door any minute now.
