Looking out of the window, Jordan began to daydream once again. Jordan noticed that not much remained of the living memories she had of her father. It was as though a knife had been driven into the centre of her heart and it had been shattered into one thousand tiny pieces. Jordan knew that fate could change the course of anyone's life and in a split second, all that you knew existed could instantly vanish from your memory. Her father had always told her to 'never give up giving up', but what was there to give up?
Her life took a dramatic turn for the worst the day her father was killed by the bastard in the town square in Venice. It was from that day forward, that her life had been turned upside down and everything that she once knew existed had vanished into thin air.
Turning around from where she was facing the window, Jordan was faced with the prospect of losing all the memories that had once lived within her mind. The small living room, which was located exactly in the middle of their unit, on a small street in Venice, showed very little signs that her father once inhabited their house alongside them. The small lane ways that were once filled with colourful, decorative shops no longer had the same vibe to them. No amount of lights or beautiful masks could bring back her father.
There were no pictures to remind her of what he once looked like, or possessions that her father had owned. The only living memory that Jordan had retained from her fathers existence was his small satchel containing his half written in notebook, a pen and the rag doll that she had received as a gift from him on her 7th birthday; just one and a half weeks before he died. A loud bang startled Jordan and bought her to the realisation that she was daydreaming once again. Her mind seemed to do that every time something ordinary bought back fond memories of her father. Her mother emerged from around the corner of the living room and sigh no emotion whatsoever, she handed Jordan the broken remains of the vase that had just fallen from its place on the kitchen bench.
The vase was given to Jordan's mother as a gift from her father a few Christmases ago. It was the only ornament that her mother had kept; the rest of them, she gave to the police to aid their investigation into his death; they were never returned. Jordan had never been fond of the vase, as the swirl design didn't go well with the brown and green colour glaze.
As Jordan lifted up her head, she could see the tears forming in her mothers sad, hollow eyes. Without thinking, Jordan walked over to her mother and gave her a hug.
After her father died, Jordan's mother had planned to sell the vase to the Art Gallery for a small fortune. With the money, Jordan and he mum may have been able to make a better life for themselves. With the little money that they now had, Jordan's mother was struggling to financially support Jordan and it seemed as though she was lacking emotional love as well.
'Im so sorry mum, there isn't much that we can do.the vase has been shattered into tiny pieces and I don't see any point in trying to fix it.
Her mother stayed silent. It was what she always did when she was sad, however, when she thought about it, Jordan realised that her mother hardly ever spoke to her, only when someone else was involved in the conversation.
Jordan saw no point in trying to stick the broken pieces together, it would be almost as impossible as trying to mend a broken heart. It would never work. Instead, she scooped up all the pieces off the floor and placed them into a container. The vase was of no value now.
Jordan got up from the spot she was kneeling on the floor and walked past her mother, into her bedroom and placed the container into her cupboard for safe keeping. It was only when she walked past the living room, past the front door, that she saw the corner of an envelope sticking out from under the door.
Jordan knelt down, picked up the envelope and curiously turned it over so she could see who it was addressed to. Her heart sank when she saw that it was for her mother, but she nearly chocked on her own breath when she saw who sent it.
To Giovanna Rosetta,
With regards, the Italian Foster Care Association.
