Imitating Life.

Eyes open. She felt a single drop of sweat languidly climb down from her forehead. She felt something, some kind of pull, but was unsure of what it was. She was unable to remember the moment almost identical to this one that she knew had occurred once before.
Without turning her head, she allowed her right arm to sneak around the unknown side of the bed. She was definitely alone.

Goosebumps formed at her ankles as her bare feet touched the dew drenched grass, and sprinted up her legs & torso until they covered her entire body.
There it was.
A small black chasm-like structure placed between two small garden rocks and beneath her Jacaranda tree. She stared at her own private backyard black hole without fear. Curiosity moved her hands over the rocks as she knelt in front of the hole, feeling out its depth and looking for an end, finish or other side to it. As she had expected, it didn’t have one.
She settled back onto her heels facing the hole and was greeted by the appearance of a small vase. She knew it wasn’t there moments before, and calmly deduced that it had materialized from the hole. She was completely unalarmed.
The mysterious vase was quite ornate. It looked to her as if a full sized antique, white porcelain vase had just been shrunk to this miniature size. Her fingers traced over the blue and gold pattern as she walked from the far corner of her back yard and into her kitchen. She sat at her dining room table sipping on a cup of overly sweet, strong black coffee. She stared at the vase, examining every curve. She realized she had seen it before; it was a present from the stranger that was her Oma when she was nine. The first time she had ever met her Oma. She had forgotten the present, and as hard as she tried, she could not ignite the memory of her past to remember what had become of the original vase.
Laying in bed that night, with the vase safely tucked away in a large wooden box beneath her bed, she was flooded with images, sounds, smells, and feelings from her childhood. She felt the texture of her Oma’s flame red hair beneath her finger tips, just had she had done when she was nine. She could smell the fresh cut Gardenias from her mother’s garden that were placed in every room. These memories had long remained dormant within.

The sun had barely pierced the horizon when she left the warmth of her bed for the mysterious black hole in the garden. This time as she crossed the yard she could already see a small object waiting for her at the entrance to the hole. She ran to it.
Drinking her very sweet black coffee she examined the object. This time it was a small jade coloured hand mirror belonging to her older sister. Her sister had accused her of stealing it when she was sixteen, they had fought for weeks over the incident. She peered at herself in the mirror and only saw her young and tear stained face.
That night, with the mirror taking a place beside the vase in her wooden chest, she was again bombarded with vivid memories, this time from her teenage years. She felt the cool of wooden floorboards beneath her feet on a hot summer’s day, the rich sweet taste of her mother’s chocolate pudding that would be left unfinished in the fridge and eaten the next day at breakfast. She cocooned herself in these memories, relishing the fresh yet familiar feelings they invoked. That night her sleep was filled with more colour, sound and movement than it had been in years.

The next morning followed the same pattern; running downstairs to discover what gift had been left for her and then swimming through the memories all day and night. This routine continued for approximately two weeks. Some objects left for her were more abstract and took longer for her to examine and figure out; a half folded Origami crane that was her last attempt at trying to involve herself in her sister’s studies. Other objects left were more direct; her favourite purple dress, a blue clock in the shape of fish given to her by her mother and invitations to old friends birthday parties. Her wooden box quickly began to fill up with inanimate pieces of her life, at the same time her life began to revolve around filling this box.

She woke to the sun in her eyes and high in the sky. It was late. She reached under her bed for her wooden box of treasures and pulled it with ease onto her lap. Her heart dropped. She lifted the lid and found herself staring at the bottom of the box. It was empty.
She rushed from her room and into the backyard, dreading the reason behind her sleep in.
It was gone.
She felt the ground where it had been, it was cold. She felt the cold.