They were made of light wood and had metal edges that could tear a careless prying finger. Inside there were still traces of the foil lining and a faint, musty smell. Once they had brought tea from India, now they contained our travelling lives. My first memory is of my father unpacking the tea chests and stacking books on the shelves in the living room, while I sat on my mother’s knee.
We rarely used that room. A child barely remembers cold, but I imagine that the exposed position of the house was the reason we lived almost entirely in the kitchen, at least when we were indoors, so the kitchen forms the nutshell of my indoor memories - My view was upwards from the floor where we played, towards my parents sitting either side of the Rayburn. The upper reaches were only seen when I was held up to see the gas mantle with the brass ‘Off’ and ‘On’ switches, or when I climbed onto the table to look in the mirror, wondering if, like all the princesses in the stories, I too was beautiful.
Written from the prompt for the day for #ShortStorySept
We rarely used that room. A child barely remembers cold, but I imagine that the exposed position of the house was the reason we lived almost entirely in the kitchen, at least when we were indoors, so the kitchen forms the nutshell of my indoor memories - My view was upwards from the floor where we played, towards my parents sitting either side of the Rayburn. The upper reaches were only seen when I was held up to see the gas mantle with the brass ‘Off’ and ‘On’ switches, or when I climbed onto the table to look in the mirror, wondering if, like all the princesses in the stories, I too was beautiful.
Written from the prompt for the day for #ShortStorySept