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A Bouquet of Lost Memories
      by
      
Rusty Broadspear
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      

She shakily 
held a forty year old snapshot of her twentieth 
birthday. 
Under a sunny sky she was alone, facing the camera, 
laughing and leaning back 
on to the parapet of an
ancient bridge in Somerset. 
Her arms were 
outstretched, as if to say 
"I'm here, I've 
arrived!"
Except, she wasn't alone. 
The pose and laughter was 
not for the sake of nostalgia 
some forty years on, 
it
was a sign of complete acceptance and undeniable 
love 
for the photographer, who was also her fiancé.
Many snapshots were taken that day but this one, 
by 
all accounts, was a lone survivor. 
Her dark, laquered
hair was in the style of the day, 
with 'kiss 
curls,' 
her skimpy top matched her knee length 
boots  in vivid
yellow 
and her red mini skirt 
was only a shade 
longer than the belt 
that held it snugly to her 
hips. 
Her lips
shone with the colour of her skirt 
and she carried 
a matching shoulder bag.
A Dolly Bird.
In the distance, smoke lazily trailed upward into 
the blue 
from a commercial complex 
and if one 
looked very
closely, 
there was a brightly painted barge 
snailing a course around a distant river bend.
So, on this day, there was sunshine within and 
sunshine without. 
The sort of picture that forces 
any heart to
skip a beat, 
when studied with a searching eye. 
A 
casual glance, then it is a casual snap, anonymous,
uninteresting, dull, tedious and thrown limply 
into 
humankind's celluloid waste basket.
Her thumb bore signs of years past 
but the nail was 
neatly manicured. 
A tear spattered the nail and
minuscule droplets sprayed a 'hold on time.' 
A 
recollection that was presently lost to her, 
a 
memory that will
shortly return 
and then will revisit no longer.
A snapshot. A photo. Commonplace, people detritus.
Gold of the purest kind.
She knew not to discard but she knew not why.
The diagnosis was softly and tenderly whispered as 
'early stages of Alzheimer's.'
The photograph butterflied gently and with grace 
into the open fire as she plucked another one from 
the
battered shoe box. 
The very air she breathed, cried with manifest 
sadness. 

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