Memory is somewhat of a fickle thing, as it slowly fades, the longer and longer that
time passes on. Of course, time is but a construct of our imagination – a word given meaning
to define the movement of the Earth in relativity to a person and everyone around, a golden
circle shining and expanding all across the skyscrapers, reflecting a glow not unlike the
panels on the rooftops.
With this movement, comes the only memory I have of my childhood, as I sat across
from an elderly man, a physically handicapped fellow, gripping a wooden cane as tight as his
webbed hand would allow. I remember the engravings on the wood, as he told me about the
languages lost, pacing forward and smacking the rubber cork on the marbled floor.
He told me about the ticks on the clock, its value as a philosophical idea, its limited
existence in one’s life, slowly dying as it aged. He rambled about the days, changing as the
light in the sky circled over and over again, bringing a comforting darkness at dusk, and a
blinding sear 12 hours later. Then, himself, his cane swinging through the sands of time,
chronicling his life from his childhood to that very moment, knowing when exactly he was
fated to die.
And so I sit, with the same face that I’ve had for the past 10 years, reminiscing of a
time past that maybe never was, as my body has stayed the same, but the same walls that
have fortified my mind for so long, carefully breaking down, crumbling like the old brick
walls broken down to build the young, strong, sleek buildings, covered in the gridlike panels
made to utilize the light – as am I. And so I’ll hold the same face for many years more,
harnessing the light, powered by the ball in the sky. I suppose I understand what that old man
was speaking of, the value of a shortened existence – I’ll never quite die after all.
By Eric Lee – Grade 12