Tripping down memory lane
Tripping down memory lane writing stories
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nasseropolis To live forever and die often.
Autoplay OFF   •   2 years ago
Some of the lower branches had been fitted with lights that sparkled and twinkled at the old woman as she moved, or as they swayed.

Tripping down memory lane

It was fall, and the dry, withered leaves had started to carpet the ground of the small park where she was; enough was still left on the trees, however, shrouding the night sky.

Some of the lower branches had been fitted with lights that sparkled and twinkled at the old woman as she moved,

or as they swayed;

other trees had lights shining upwards and coloring the leaves in breathtaking azure. There was a fountain several steps ahead, with a bronze statue of a woman on top.

The woman was kneeling and pouring water out of a bucket over her body, washing. The plinth underneath had engravings of people on it that she couldn't make out well.

Further back at the other end of the park was a memorial cross, adorned with flowers.

She leaned to brush the leaves off the bench, but there weren't any. She gathered there must have been people sitting there not long ago.

“No bird droppings?”

She looked at little Rosie at her side, “No, Rosie, no droppings anywhere. I'm curious to know how they get rid of the birds.”

“Maybe they just hire cleaners to wash away the poop?”

She picked up a leaf from the ground and presented it to Rosie, who nodded in agreement, then let it fall back down and took her seat. Rosie climbed onto her lap.

“You didn't know Ed,” she said of her late husband, “we used to come here a lot back in the day. He liked that statue, and not just because of the voluptuous, naked woman.”

“Or the genuflection,” Rosie remarked.

“No, he respected women,” the woman continued, “although, he still saw her posture befitting the whole Roman context.

He really liked literature, and he would go on all about elaborate Roman architecture, and their imposing, complex aqueducts, and lavish, crowded public baths.”

“Must have been very nasty people,” Rosie said, gesturing to the murky, still water of the fountain beneath the statue, and they both shared a giggle.

“I liked that,” the old woman went, “I liked the life in his eyes when he spoke of things he knew a lot about and was certain of.”

“Almost certain of,” Rosie hastened to add.

“Almost certain,” she laughed. “Yes! He would always correct me as such.”

She fidgeted with something in her hands and went silent for a while, as did the whole park, bar the rustling of the dome of leaves and branches above. Poor Ed, she thought.

“If you're done reminiscing now, I really have to pee,” Rosie squirmed pleadingly.

“Alright,” She sighed, “we better get going then.”

They both got on their feet and resumed walking across the park.

The street ahead was lined with three-storey buildings, exquisitely painted in red, and brown, and white, with square windows and glinting shopfronts.

Past the fountain and the lampposts they went, the leash secure in the old woman's hand, her heels clicking over the clay brick pavement, followed by the pitter-patter of Rosie's tiny paws.

At the memorial she turned right and carried on, until they were shrouded from our view by the fountain, and the city engulfed her life again as it did millions other.

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