Memories are made of this

CAROLYN BOYD Year 12, Queen’s High School

IT’S raining outside.

The cold bites at my exposed skin as we rush for cover.

Glass doors stand before us, droplets of water sticking to them as they slide open, and then streaking down leaving marks on the spotless panes.

It’s a whole new world inside. Met with a blast of warmth, my damp hair reaches up like hands, grasping for the newfound heat. Time seems to speed up. A wave of sound accosts my ears — talking, laughing, calling.

It feels as though I’m whirling inside a cocoon as I slowly try to become accustomed to this domain.

So many people bustling around, their movements focused and certain.

Layer upon layer of colour blurs into one as lab coats, wheelchairs, trolleys and more dash past, racing against something of which only they are aware.

I stand still, my nose prickling at a bitter smell. The smell of sickness and death, sadness and suffering.

Memories slowly begin to surface — ones I had hidden long ago.

It was a beautiful day. The sky seemed to stretch on forever, merging with the ocean in one giant expanse of blue.

We stood there, insignificant, squashed in between.

Everything seemed to reflect the sun. Red, orange and yellow combined into one mess of colours.

The ‘‘whoosh’’ of cars shot past us, leaving a breeze in their wake that ruffled fallen leaves on the ground.

We huddled together, shoulders bumping, backs straight.

Anyone who saw us may have mistaken us for a group of penguins.

Dad led the way — his long legs effortlessly moved him to the front.

He was grizzling about the lack of speed bumps, his voice loud and rough as if he had just woken up.

I guess he was just trying to take his mind off things.

The building towered above us.

Its top half shrouded in darkness, luminous and eerie.

The shadows of trees grazed the walls, moving in time with the branches.

She walked in the middle of us all, surrounding herself with that which she found familiar.

Her arms clutched at her pillow — pulling it tightly to her chest — the only thing she was able to bring.

The doors slid open as we approached them, the glass so clean and clear it was almost as if they weren’t there.

Once we were through, they hissed shut, trapping us inside.

It was not what I had expected. Sculptures and paintings littered the foyer, colourful and vibrant.

A mural halffinished stood stark against the pristine white walls, shapes just beginning to form.

I felt a sharp tug on my arm as I was pulled along, my focus wavering from the colours that had clouded my vision.

The smell that filled my senses was familiar yet also new.

Chemicals and bleach mixed with bitter burnt smoke — like the smell of North Dunedin when the Gregg’s factory roasts the coffee beans for too long.

I blinked multiple times, my eyes beginning to glisten at the powerful odour.

Giant silver doors were hidden around a corner, almost to conceal the fact that this bustling area was only the entrance to much more.

My little sister pushed herself to the front.

Her small fingers frantically reached out to press the button before anyone else did.

With a small beep that echoed around us, the metal doors clanked open.

Piling into the metal carriage, we stood bunched together.

The thick doors shuddered closed, slowly blocking our view of where we had just come from.

With a stomach dropping feeling, the metal box began to rise as though pulled by the dead on their way to the afterlife.

It felt like 100 floors had passed before those doors finally opened.

She stepped out first as we trailed behind her, her short hair sticking out in wavy black tendrils.

The slippers on her feet scuffed against the polished hard floors. The black soles so much more noticeable on the colourless vinyl.

We were soon noticed by a group of smiling faces which floated over to us like buoys bobbing in water.

The faces surrounded her, momentarily blocking her from my view.

Hands appeared and began grabbing at her, leading her away.

Her room was ready and waiting — white sheets folded on a white mattress, with a white pillow lying gracefully on top.

I was glad she had brought her own.

The ugly brown pillowslip I once hated, now the only thing that reminded us of home.

With hugs and goodbyes, the smiling faces ushered us out.

Their grins stared down at us, smug and satisfied. We were left alone then. In that large empty space. Alone to do nothing but wait.

Voices interrupt my thoughts, the sounds slowly coming into focus.

The rain has stopped.

A slight haze hangs in the air, shimmering in the rays of sunlight making their way through the clouds.

The bright blue car sits idling outside the doors.

My feet slosh through puddles, their presence the only thing to remind me of the recent downpour.

The door of the car squeaks as it swings open, hinges brown and rusted.

My eyes travel to the drivers side and there she sits, pillow on her lap.

The perfect smile I have always loved, grinning at me.

The mist lifts. I grin back.