Museum of Memories

Silver necklaces, rosegold watches, brass bracelets and lockets filled the top drawer. All laid out neatly in rows. And there was her wedding ring, sitting peacefully in the palm of his hand.

He placed it tentatively with the rest of her items of jewellery, before closing the drawer.

He opened the warobe and palmed her dresses. Stared at her cans of hairspray, her rollers and comb. Stifling a sob, he quickly closed the door and reached in his pocket for his handerchief to wipe away his sorrows. 

Upon returning it to its place, he notices the stitching. He smiles at the memory it stirs but then his heart aches. The handerchief is roughly shoved back in his pocket.

As he hobbled out of their bedroom, he glanced into the spare room. There sat her lonely sewing machine upon it's dusty bench.

He limped into the silent living room, shuffling past the empty armchair, he sat down in his own. 

Closing his eyes, yearning for relief from the pain. His home has been reduced to a lonely museum of memories, where even the happiest of ones are sad.

Lily Larkin
May 7 2020

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