The Power of Memories

by Astrid Bracke

As I rode through the once-familiar neighborhood, I could just catch a glimpse of the apartment building. From my seat on the bus, the building seemed strangely plain and ordinary to me. It hadn't been painted in a different color and the trees that had always been there were still there, only a little taller. Still it looked different from the image I had stored in my mind. As the bus turned around the corner, I realized that it was not so much my grandparents' apartment that had changed, but me. As I had grown older, my memories changed and became more fanciful, more beautiful, until the image in my mind barely resembled the apartment building in the dark street.

Revisiting a once-special place can be a confusing experience. It doesn't look like it used to do; the trees are not as tall and they're less majestic, the rooms have lost their magical glow and sometimes even people are no longer what we remember them to be. Memories are far from factual and fail to fit in with the rationality of the mind. As time passes over them, it adds a little sparkle, a glow and finally a golden rim until they no longer resemble what we really saw, but only what we really felt. This way my own memories have changed as well. The apartment that still holds a special place inside of me has turned from an ordinary building into a magical place. Rationally, this image may be wrong, but according to my facts--my feelings--this image is more right than any photograph.

None of the photographs of the apartment shows the glow that surrounded my grandfather's nightstand: my favorite object. Although a rather ordinary nightstand, the shiny yellow wood it was made of made it look even more like a treasure chest to me. The treasures were my grandfather's possessions. His old glasses and his calendars hadn't been removed since his death. I spent hours sitting on the floor arranging the glasses in front of me and looking through his calendars to see my name in his neat handwriting. It is often said that children are happy with little things, and these seemingly valueless objects entertained me for hours. My grandfather died when I was four years old, and the only memories I have of him are sketchy. The objects from his nightstand helped me create an image that replaced these lacking memories. The glasses he had once worn represented him, and my name in his handwriting created a bond.

Seven years after my grandfather's death, my grandmother moved out. Her new room in the nursing home was too small for the old furniture. Together with the bed and the cupboard, the nightstand would go to Goodwill. For the last time I took all of my treasures out of it and put them in a cardboard box. To this day the box stands in a corner of the attic. It has turned into a memory itself, as I never actually look at it--I just like to know it's there.

As the bus drove on through the dark city, distancing itself more and more from the apartment, the image stayed with me. The view has become more fuzzy and rose-colored until it has stopped resembling reality. Memories aren't factual. They are shapes underneath a layer of snow. If the snow would melt and reveal the objects, they would only vaguely resemble the image you had in mind. Therefore the real apartment is only a shadow of the image in my mind and reasonably speaking I'm holding on to an illusion. Yet it is my choice to hold on to this illusion, and I enjoy playing it back in my mind from time to time, as a favorite movie I never tire of.

The Author

Astrid Bracke, a self-starter, writes short stories, articles on a wide range of topics, and book reviews. Her interests include reading, writing, volunteer work, web design and travelling. She currently resides in the Netherlands and can be found online at astridbracke.com, her personal website that includes her portfolio.