Short Story Competition Runner-up: Grace Oxley with ‘The Memory Box’

Throughout your life I’ve found that memories escape your grasp, they run beneath you like an unending road, a shadow that always seems to trail you. No matter how hard you cling on to the old you, the friend you mourn and all the fading emotions we carry around with ourselves like extra baggage, you simply will end up losing it all. I ask myself why I’m so desperate to keep reliving a memory already lived and I think the answer is that memories are the glue that hold my identity together, they’re a tribute to who I am. What a shame that when you meet someone, you’re only aware of the most basic part of them, their outer appearance. It feels like overlooking the most wholesome, truest part of someone. A constant reminder that no one can truly know you, as they only see others as deeply as they see themselves.

As I sit back on my bed in my childhood bedroom and the contents of my preloved memory box stare back at me, challenging me to surrender and remember the purest days of my life, I feel so vulnerable. As if the most interesting and unique parts of who I am as a person can be squished and folded into this pink rusting box a best friend gifted me at my seventh birthday. Each item represents something so important to me at the time I placed it in this box; it feels as if I’m peeking through a window at a life that doesn’t belong to me. The things important to the twelve-year-old me are not the things important to me now. What would I put in my box now if I still wanted to remember everything about my present life? I’m not sure.

I close my eyes and let the warmth of this moment weigh down on me, and for a minute I forget about the life I now lead, and I am taken back to one of the most perfect times in my life. I trace the ridges on the shell beneath my fingers as I gently place it in my mum's hands so that she can keep it for later. I hear my name being called from over in the sea, willing me to come back and keep exploring in the waves. Running across the golden layers of sand, I enjoy the feeling of it gently enveloping my feet as I sink into the sand with each step and make my way back to the sea, with the sun sparkling across the soft waves. I fold myself into the waves, and my head is submerged under. I melt into the warmth of the water caressing me. My dad snorkels over and signals our sign to keep swimming. We stick together and take in the bright reefs and colourful fish that filter through their home. We’ve been doing this for hours now, yet I don’t think I’ll ever get bored of snorkelling with my dad. Although I only have limited experiences, I know that this has got to be one of the most beautiful things to ever exist.

Opening my eyes, I feel the same shell that is slightly cracked and dusty in my hands and move to place it back into the box, packing away a memory, a piece of myself. In the corner of my eye, something catches the light, daring me to pick it up. Digging my hand through the box in front of me, I clasp the rounded beads on a pink and purple charm bracelet. Its familiarity is unmistakable in my hands and holds the memories of a beautiful childhood friendship.

The bracelet is smaller than I remember. I fasten it around my wrist, and for the first time I am fastening it again around a much smaller hand. My fingers clumsy with its thin elastic ends careful not to pull too tightly. After watching my granny’s earlier appearance when receiving the bracelet that I gifted her, I think I finally understand her expression as I’m sure it’s much similar to the one I wear now. She looked like she felt special to be receiving something so simple, maybe it’s because she saw her favourite colours decorating it. I hear my mum’s warm voice cutting through my thoughts to tell me what an amazing friend I have for giving me such a beautiful bracelet. She’s right. I love this bracelet so much, it’s so sparkly. I can’t believe someone would give me something so brilliant! My earlier jealousy when I saw her making it seems funny now. I was thinking that maybe granny might like the gift more if it was this bracelet, but I think granny liked her gift because I was the one who made it.

The bracelet digs into my wrist now and is decorated with the passage of time, but it feels anything but wrong to be wearing it. Glancing back at my memory box, I wonder if my grandma kept her bracelet in her memory box or if she now wears it in heaven, part of me hope she still wears it and doesn’t pack it away, as I did.

I place the last object into my box and rest my hands on the lid as it settles closed, the sound soft as wind. The box is lighter than I expected as I place it underneath my bed, or maybe I am stronger now. I no longer need the proof of my existence I once so heavily relied on in the form of small, shiny items to remind me of who I was. Now, I recognise they have done their work. The box is full, finished and beautiful. Despite this, I consider if there is anything I could add but the thought passes. Because I now know some things need to be lived not saved. I let this moment pass through me and out again, and it is enough.

Judge’s Comments:

The writer’s use of imagery is particularly engaging, especially in the vivid beach scene where the sensory details of the sea, sand, and light bring the past to life with clarity and immediacy. The motif of the memory box is handled thoughtfully, acting as a tangible symbol of growth and change over time. The writing flows with a gentle, introspective tone, allowing the reader to connect with the narrator’s shifting relationship with their past, and the conclusion offers a mature and quietly reassuring sense of acceptance.