A mess of things are sprawled on the table. A huge crack split down the middle is noticed on it. Tape is covered down the split but the tape is aged and peeling. Flashback to two younger girls running around the table, laughing and playing tag. The younger one climbs on top and starts jumping on it. She encourages the older one to join her. Hesitantly, the older one joins in only to hear a crack and see a split down the middle. The two girls look worriedly at the noticeable crack…
A young couple shopping for furniture for their new house. They enter with their three year old daughter who runs carelessly around. They purchase many things and among them is the coffee table. The couple brings the furniture into their newly bought house and position the table at the center of the living room. Slowly, the entire room fills up with a sofa, television, paintings, a carpet, etc. The family is happy.
The table is no longer in use after the crack. It is moved into the storage room in the basement. It has been years since it has been touched, only dust gathers on the table. Like all objects it only wants to be used but it is unlikely to ever get that chance. It remains in the dusty basement with all the other unwanted objects.
I cast it back but hte string doesn’t fall down into the water when i push it forward. I look back and the wire is gone. The hook is gone too. Did it get stuck? It probably got caught in one of the branches again. I pull on it once more and then I hear my dad cry out. I found the hook. It’s on my dad’s jacket. He yells to me in Spanish to get myself over there asap to entangle him out of my wire and his. It;s too hard. THere are too many knots. And its almost dark. We have to get back to camp…
We bough it on ebay. It was an auction lot of two rods and a completely filled tackle box. We were sure we were going to catch ourselves some dinner. We were wrong. For years, we’ve been trying to catch a single fish, but we’ve never even gotta bite. Now, it just sits tehre on the floor of our garage. Gathering dust, losing its old red clor. We’ve added brothers and sisters, but they’re no use either. We’ve never caught a fish. It’s disappointing. We go to different places every year to try our luck, but we still come up short. But hey, at least it was cheap. And it does bring back the memories I’ve shared with my father.
I’m tired of waiting for fish to bite my bait. Completely given up. I throw the pole into the ocean in a fit of anger. The pole dives into the sea. It breaks the surface of the glistening water. It interrupts a school of fish, and nearly impales a little clownfish. Nemo? Thud. It hits the sand. Sand covers it– the useless fishing pole. It is finally out of my hands.
My objects are the uniforms of George S. Patton; my grandfather was a close friend of his. It’s significant because my grandfather knew Patton before WWII and he fought in WWII. He was the super in Patton’s building and he had dinner with him often.
The object came from Patton’s wife who gave it to my grandmother. Its nothing special they aren’t his dress uniforms but they are still cool to me, and my family likes them. The object really isn’t in my house but it is in my aunts house but I’ve seen it once or twice.
I only learned about this object recently through my dad I had no idea it was in my family.
I look at this as a symbol of my family’s patriotism and mine.
In the exact middle of the wall there is the clock. A clock that is different. Unlike other clocks, this one does not move. No one ever question where the clock came from or why it is on the wall. It is something unique. No one ever dare to have the thought of throwing it out. It has been through a lot. Recorded the birth of the babies and the death of the dearest papa. Many things have been thrown out during the years, but this clock remains…
The scene is one of a Caribbean beach with palm trees everywhere. I’m walking around aimlessly looking for something, anything that intrigues me. The sun is blazing and the sand is hot. Not sure why there’s no grass to be seen. I feel like I’m the only one on the island left out. Then I stumble onto a pile of medium sized stones. Hey who put this here. Not cool. Not cool at all. I like to climb trees so I start scaling the palm tree. But there’s not much for me to grab on to. I slide down a little bit then move up a little bit. I’m not getting anywhere, but with some more effort I finally reach the top and just hang on for a little bit. All of a sudden I notice something on the ground. Something I didn’t notice from being grounded. Something I could only see from a different perspective. The pile of rocks I had tripped over only a short time ago was actually in the form of an x. I suddenly thought to myself no way. Am I in a book or fairy tale? I decide to explore, might as well since I have nothing else better to do. I throw all the rocks off and start digging. When I get to the bottom I see a treasure chest like I’ve been hoping for. Inside, a magical scroll with my name on it, talking about my future, tells my prophecy.
This scroll was blessed by a magical man before I was even born. He was the one that decided my name and the day that I would be born. I guess my parents believed in this stuff, but the magical man said that I would be blessed and have a good life. In it, it says my name and a bunch of things about my future. It says one day I’ll do something great… It’s been in my parents possession until I turned around 10 years old then they put it in my hands. It’s currently in the closet of my room, waiting for me to open it and read it again. I think it’s really cool and it really makes me feel special.
This scroll tells my story. What I’ll be. No matter what happens to me, I’ll know the end result. It’s fate. Maybe I can change my own destiny and I’ll write my future on to the scroll. Perhaps the words on it will magically change the next time I open it. It’ll always tell my future, even if I try to change it. It’ll point me in a good direction and give me hope.
I am walking in my living room and I brush my chess set, knocking the pieces over. I quickly attempt to pick up the pieces and organize them but they are scattered across the room and under furniture. I know the big pieces like the kings, queens, and bishops will be easy to find and are most likely intact but I worry for the smaller and more fragile pieces like the pawns. Eventually, I gather all the pieces I can find and reorganize them in systematic ways, the white and black sides staring each other down in a cool indifference.
I remember my father telling me about the chess set. He and my mother were at an antique auction and my dad immediately fell in love with it. Intricately carved from beautiful pieces of polished woods, the mahogany and lighter brown colors shone and sparkled in the light. My father had to have it and bought it impulsively without asking my mother. It was very expensive so my mother was furious. However, she relented when he told her how important chess was to him because he played with his father. Soon enough, my father taught me to play (and always beat me) but I loved just playing with him. Now I think the chess set wants to be played again because we haven’t touched it in years. I hope that the chess set will always be there to bring my family together.
It has been a long time since my father and I have played anything together because my teenage years have given me friends and autonomy. Still, I wish to play with him again and when I ask, he agrees. For a moment, it is like I am a young child again, spending quality time with my father. Our moves in response to one another, a tango of the wooden figures. Then, miraculously, I beat him. I say “checkmate” as he gapes in astonishment, then smiles, and its as if its a rite of passage into becoming an adult.
I’m sitting in my living room working on a paper on my laptop while my Mom is cleaning the house. While she’s cleaning a shelf she accidentally knocks over a pair of glasses. Without hesitating I move quickly and grab the pair of glasses. I check really quickly to make sure the glasses weren’t damaged. My Mom takes the glasses and puts them back in their proper place, but it’s already returned memories good and bad.
The glasses belonged to my grandfather on my Mom’s side of the family. We called him Papa Glasses because when I was little I thought grandpa sounded too normal so I wanted a special name for him. Him and my grandmother had a huge part in raising me when I was little. My Mom and Dad both worked, so during the day my grandparents would usually keep an eye on me. My grandfather was very loving and he always had a big smile on his face whenever he saw me. He would always be at the head of the table at family gatherings and he always enjoyed good food. Sadly, he passed away during the summer before my senior year of high school. It was one of the worse times in my life because junior year had been rough for various reasons and then instead of getting better, things got worse in a way I couldn’t imagine. Seeing my family go through such a trying time was rough and all the milestone moments I had in senior year didn’t feel complete without my grandfather. Although there are plenty of memories and photos, his pair of glasses may be one of the things he left behind I am happy to have. After all his glasses were part of his nickname.
As I finish my paper, I take a second look at the glasses on the shelf. Although I may just be reminiscing, I can’t help but feel as if the glasses have a certain power to them. I feel that looking into them I can see memories I had with my grandfather playing out before me. All the times he visited my house and we’d all watch movies together. All the times I sat with him at Coney Island in the evening asking him about his youth and talking about good foods. It cuts off before the bad memories come. Makes sense, considering he would go through hell if it meant his family would be safe. What I would give for one more dinner with him around.
The shoehorn drops from out of nowhere. It makes clinging sounds just as a coin does when it drops on to the floor. I’m too far from the shoehorn to see it but I recognize it by the sound it makes when hitting the ground. It has a unique sound that comes about due to its odd shape and weight. I walk up to it and its sitting there facedown. It looks like a typical still-life painting. It lays there in a way that people will know that it has been used for many many years and has been through a lot…The shoehorn wants to be reminded its history. It has been passed down from person to person for so many years that it has become confused as to who was its original owner.
A year ago…
A pair of girlfriends who seem to have known one another for a very long time meet up somewhere and they exchange gift bags. One of these two girls, the taller one holds a bag filled with goodies, random things that were just thrown together. The other girl, a shorter girl, hands the taller one a small gift bag, a small palm sized one. The taller one has on a face of astonishment, immediately assuming it to be jewelry, not knowing, without a clue as to what the gift might be.
The taller one opens the box in which the bracelet lay, and gently does she remove it from the packaging. The length of the bracelet is tanned leather. It is a dark shade of iguana green, while the connecting segment of the bracelet is silver, seemingly rustic in appearance.
The small charm that hangs from that silver portion is a cross. It isn’t a plain cross, it reflects light so well. It’s not gleaming but it’s shiny. It is a crucifix that is wrapped in rope near where the intersection of the perpendicular is. The taller girl holds the bracelet up to the light and looks at the charm, and the charm alone. She remembers Christ. She also acknowledges the fact that the friend who gave it to her isn’t Christian, but knows that she herself is. She puts on that bracelet and feverishly thanks her friend…
A girl peers into her bag and reaches in. It’s a mess of a bag, but it’s filled with all of her daily used items. At the bottom of this bag she sees a short silver chain with slightly rusted /worn edges and reaches for it. What she pulls out is a bracelet. It has silver chained ends and a green leather body. It’s very soft leather; it looks like it never used to be refined in any special way. It wasn’t like the commonly sold charm bracelets at Tiffany and Co. This bracelet looks like something from a boutique or a special stand in Union Square. She puts the simple bracelet on, placing it on her left wrist as if she’s done it dozens of times before and knows exactly how to lay it there so that she can connect the two ends of it and stick the short segment of silver into the loop on the other end. It fits perfectly on her wrist when she gets it on. She knows she’ll never lose it, but it can at times be hidden in the abyss that is her handbag…
Seven years later…
The new mother sits down in the rocking chair with her new beautiful baby girl. Her bracelet charm on her wrist swings back and forth with every gentle rock. The baby quietly goes to sleep and the mother dozes off.
The air in the room is heavy with the argument. He doesn’t understand where she’s coming from. He wants only a little it won’t even be noticeable if he uses just a dab. She is adamant. No he cannot at all ever use it under any circumstances. He crosses the room to take the little box it’s kept in from her hand. She warns him that he better not dare to remove it from its safe place nestled among the satiny fabric. He ignores her, placing the box down before reaching his hand in to grab it. Smack. His fingers jerk away from the tiny bottle of cologne as if he’s been burned. He turns to face her, indignation showing clear on his face.
The cologne contained in the bottle really wasn’t all that special in its early days. Just one of many mass-produced copies of the same liquid in the same bottle. Her grandmother, however, saw it as more than that. She saw it as a part of her husband. It was the cologne he had used all through the many years of their marriage, and this was the last bottle of it she had ever bought for him.
The little bottle had always been there throughout most of her childhood, tucked away into a little box that she had painted herself. It usually went unnoticed. The box containing it was generally hidden somewhere in a draw, and her hand would brush it slightly as she grabbed clothes. That was the way it usually was, just in the periphery of her mind. Except for the times when she was all alone and her sister wasn’t in their shared room. On these rare occasions, she would carefully take the box from its draw. She would open it lovingly and take out the tiny little bottle, smiling at the opaque yellow liquid within. Gently unscrewing the cap, she would take a deep breath. She would let the familiar scent wash over her, a delicate reminder of days past with a grandfather that she adored until his passing. It was like a magical charm. If she closed her eyes and tried hard enough, she could almost feel his big hands lifting her up into the air the way they had as a toddler. She could nearly hear his deep voice rumbling, and her mind’s picture of his face lost some of the blurriness it acquired over the years.