Traces of Memories Lost

Bike Orange Box

Every Wednesday, Jack would deliver oranges to Mrs Frangipani.  Unlike his other delivery, he would not leave the fruits on the doorstep but would knock on the door to greet the woman.  She was special, and would always let him in for a cup of cappuccino.  She would always tell him about Mr Frangipani, who passed away many years ago.  The story was the same but it never bored Jack.  He loved hearing about the woman's husband.  How he serenaded her, when this was still the tradition of courting women.  How his voice was so lovely that other women envied her.  Mrs Frangipani would sometimes dance as she told her story.

"I will always remember your story, Mrs Frangipani," Jack responded.

This routine went on for two years.  Until one day, the inevitable happened.  No one answered the door.  Jack waited for almost half an hour.  One of the neighbors Mr Di Luca saw Jack waiting.  He came to the boy.

"Dear boy," the old man told him.  "She is no longer home."

Jack immediately realized what had happened.  And at that moment, his mind froze.  He could not remember how Mrs Frangipani looked like.  He tried to recall her voice but their was just silence on his head.  His mind search for the story that she had repeatedly told him.  There was only blank.  Jack thought of crying, but no tears fell from his eyes.  All he could feel was emptiness inside.  Why?  he thought.  Why could he not remember?  Those traces of memories of Mrs Frangipani were lost.

#story #bicyclechronicle #existentialism


Binnur said…
The shooting angle makes the image look great Rob. I also like the touching story.
Rob Castro said…
Thanks for noticing and very kind response, Binnur. Means a lot.

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