A certain bird chirp causes me to look up from my laptop. My fingers are poised in mid-air, awaiting my next paragraph. But my vision has been mesmerised by a certain scene outside my window, my mind following suit and forgetting about the pages in front of me.
I take a deep, relaxed breath, my favourite songs from when I was a child accompanied by nature’s sounds filled my ears. I smiled to myself, feeling the warmth of the sun on my lap and on my face. I knew I had to continue writing but the enchanting temptation of those blissful memories had won over my mind once again.
That day, eight years ago was as sunny as it was now.
“Be careful with that watering can, Nikky”, My grandmother smiled at me. Her warm eyes shined under the tropical sun’s glare. She held my waist tightly, securing me next to her so I didn’t fall.
I pouted, protesting that it wasn’t a watering can but rather a ‘plant kettle’. Grandmother merely laughed, nodding her head and agreeing with me. We continued tending to grandmother’s beloved plants. They were so pretty that day, the recent rain causing beads of glass to adorn the flower petals and leaves. I would be enraged whenever someone strode aside these plants and ruined the perfectly-sphered water droplets.
My grandfather appeared behind us, lifting me up on his back, feeling proud after cleaning our little motorcycle. It was the type with three seaters-two at the back and one at the front- that was so popular in my home country. I would squeal with excitement and fear every time we got on and I teetered over the edge for just a split second.
“It’s Sunday, Nikky, do you know what that means?”, My grandfather grinned at me.
“Mass time!”, I cheered, lifting my arms up in the sky and almost dropping my plant kettle on my white dress. The ruffles underneath swished with my recent move and the pearl brooch created a little shaking noise against my dress.
“There, there, we can’t have you get dirty before Mass now, can we?”, Grandmother gushed, fixing my brooch. I nodded, determined to keep my dress safe.
We bid our servants and nannies goodbye before climbing into grandfather’s favourite vehicle - the most rustic and old but the one we all adored-, the motorcycle. The familiar sounds of traffic reached my ears and I giggled, knowing exactly that I belonged here.
Upon leaving the majestic cathedral, I felt drowsy after the long session but was awake just enough to notice the white flowers. Sellers would usually come out after mass to trade their hand-made goods like tassels, flowers, food and balloons. I giggled in delight, my hands reaching out to a flower crown of beautiful white flowers matching the brooch on my dress. Grandmother noticed and gasped, purchasing the flower crown in a split second.
Grandfather placed the crown on my head, fooling around as if he was a King and I was the Crown Princess. We laughed as he snapped off a stick from a nearby bush and acted as if he were to knight me. Grandmother cheered and the three of us made our way back to our carriage- the motorcycle.
I opened my eyes again, grinning before even realising I had. This certain memory somehow managed to accompany me to this day. Back then, I was treated like a princess and I felt loved. Time passed and now I’m far, far away from that lifestyle.
But every once in a while, stirrings of my old, somewhat regal lifestyle, manage to surface. And the feeling is as charming as ever.
by Dominique, Year 8 (600+ words)