Memories buried in the hourglass by Louisa Prince, chamomile tea with a dash of honey

Memories aren’t linear.

They’re like random pebbles cast into a pond, rippling outwards—linked through time—connected to our past in unusual ways.

I remember visiting my grandmother’s tiny studio unit, surrounded by mementos of her long life, and how each had a story to tell.

“Until she shared a bed, your mom slept in those drawers,” she’d say.

Too small to sit still, I’d wander the room. I recall my fingers tracing the mahogany dresser, and how they left a trail in the dust. Double drawers, with warn brass knobs—big enough to fit my dolly. Warmth spread through me, and I smiled. The heavy drawer creaked open. On tiptoes, I peeked inside. My hands jerked back and face scrunched.

“Ew … in with your undies?”

Bright, tinkling laughter filled the air, replaced by the hushed tones of grown-up discussions. My six-year-old self, pressed against cool glass, making faces at passerby’s while they walked past her window.

“Come away from that window,” my mother said.

My eyes fixed on the small hourglass, something about it made me think of boats. Of pirates and sea shanties, so much so that a whiff of a sea breeze tickled my nostrils. I picked it up, turned it over and watched the sand trickle into the bottom sphere. Small whirlwinds of white crystals, like the funnel of a tornado.

“Your grandfather gave me that,” my grandmother said.

I wish I’d looked back and lingered around the tiny sofa, absorbing stories of a life breaking apart and vanishing like those sands. Snapshots of conversations never completed.

“… and that’s how I found out my father had another family,” a croaky voice said.

Whoooa … I swung around, eyes wide. “Great grandad had another family?”

Her lips twisted into a sly smile. One that hinted at knowledge unshared. “Yeah, the slimy old bastard ducked and weaved, acting like I wasn’t there … but I noticed him.”

I bounded across to the small chair, plonking down beside her. “Tell me more nan,” I said.

“It’s all because I took him lunch.” My grandmother sighed. “Can you believe that girl? Flapping her arms about like that.”

“Nana,” my voice rose into a high pitch wine. “You can’t stop there, who was she?”

Clouded eyes would search the room, “Oh … look at the time,” she said. “I'd better get dinner … he'll be home soon.”

My mum’s tear-filled gaze landed on me. “What about we wait until next time?” she asked.

Unfocused eyes stared back. “Oh, hello dear, and who do you belong to?”

I glanced across to the timepiece, watching the last sands fall into the bottom chamber, sealing her story beneath a white blanket.

Her time of lucidity over—until the next time, when shifting grains uncovered a story’s memory.

About the author:

Louisa Prince is a self-proclaimed late bloomer, living in Melbourne, Australia whose writing often focuses on family and health. An active member of The Society of Women Writers Victoria, her work appears in the New Plains Review and longlisted for SWWV’s Margaret Hazard Short Story Award.