Mum was cleaning out the attic. She handed me a box filled with old books. They brought back memories. Photos of childhood, trips with family and among them, a small sheet of paper which had my first ever poem… the ink had faded with time, but the moments were fixed forever in mind.
My mum saw me looking at it. She asked me to put it back. I carefully folded back the sheet and put it my diary of poems.
“Why are you holding on to that junk?” she asked.
“Oh, it may be junk to you, Mum, but it is a memory to me. This is one junk I can never replace.”
I picked up my diary and walked off into the garden, my eyes shining with joy at having found a piece of myself again.
For: Sunday Scribbling