I saw a girl grow from Mother’s tummy to the increasing pencil-marks on the door frame. She left many years ago, whilst I remained rooted in wooden floorboards. A few complete Earth rotations brought her back to me. Through dusty vision I saw sadder eyes, skin no longer baby-smooth, and hair far too damaged.

They tell stories of her adolescent years. Phantom tears over the last time Grandma told her the food was ready. Chapped lips that jumped between accents, and translated far too many questions. Bleached hair peer-pressured by a super-secret first-boyfriend. The little girl that struggled with her shape sorter toy finally stopped trying to fit the plastic cube into the circle cutout.

Taller pencil marks cracked the code of the mystery that big round eyes used to stare past upon. It’s full of Grandma’s fragile figurines, souvenir spoons and other tchotchkes. A small slanted smile leaned towards the freckle beside her lip. Palms felt the cold grooves of detailed brass handles—intricacies near-missed by infantile vision. 

She had pulled the great white canvas to reveal my postmodern exhibition—slightly falling short of expectations, but providing valuable experience, nonetheless. The top shelf did not hold grandiose scrolls or secrets. They were story-filled knick-knacks worthy enough to hold leading roles in newly muddled hearsay folklore.

Biography

Christine Torralba is a Philippine-born British writer, currently studying English Literature and American Studies at the University of Manchester. Inspired by movements such as Surrealism and Dadaism, her work explores the ephemeral human experience through a canted lens; sharing the different perspectives of unique microcosms through fanciful storytelling.