FADED - The Scheherazade Project

The following is my latest contribution to The Scheherazade Project, 12/7 - 12/19 theme. Yes, I'm running behind - what's new? ;) Members of the Project, welcome - or welcome back as the case may be! Hope you enjoy the read. Comments/criticisms welcome!


FADED

I was practically done cleaning out the apartment now. It’s funny how an entire lifetime of treasures and memories can be reduced down to fit in a few boxes. And somehow I’d managed to evaluate her things – things she’d hung on to for reasons only known to her – and separate them into “keep” and “donate”.

I ignored the nagging feeling that it was wrong to dispose of things that had no sentimental value to me.

I’d spent countless hours here, and now the room looked foreign. The bare walls. The faded curtains. The bright square of carpet where the easy chair sat, framed in a border of slightly dingy crushed pile. I bent down and ran my finger around the dent left by one of the legs.

I picked up the last small box and scanned the apartment before leaving for the last time. I was leaving the oversized Degas reproduction for the landlord – I really don’t have any care for ballet dancers in my own décor … And then noticed I’d missed a few items on the mantle. A seashell bowl of pinecones and potpourri, and a mint green candle. I sat the box back down and walked over to them.

I studied them for a while and decided they were junk. The potpourri had no more fragrance and was covered in dust. The candle had been burned at some point but the small concave pool left by the melt was also layered in dust. It had blemishes and dents in its surface, and was slightly misshapen – like a pillar wedding cake that had no internal support. I picked it up and smelled it – if it ever had a fragrance it was long gone now.

I dumped the contents of the bowl in the trash bag, and as I did so I turned the candle over absentmindedly. The underside held weakly on to a piece of masking tape, brittle and browned by age – and on the tape was written a name.

My name.

Now why was that?

I mean, I knew she labeled things meticulously, it was her way. So I obviously gave it to her. Maybe for Christmas one year, or some sort of gift. I stood next to the trash and turned the candle around over and over in my hands, trying to remember. I couldn’t remember at all.

I held it over the trash, ready to release it. But I didn’t. I drew it back to me and looked at the label again. There was no date, which was odd for her … But the writing was crisp and smooth … Written before the days of arthritis and bad eyesight. I wondered when.

I wondered all the way home. Candle in the box with the other keepers on my passenger seat.

I burned the candle last night and tried to remember again. The candle still did not smell even with the release of heat. And I still can’t remember.

Oh well … does it matter? I figure it can’t hurt to keep something that doesn’t mean anything to me. It meant something to her.