The Measurement of Memories

The last box was just sealed. A sliver of light sneaked its way through a slit in the tattered curtains, yellowed with age. I found myself lying in a corner, dust settled around me like the freshly fallen snow. My name? It’s Tally. But that hardly matters now. What does is my story.

Alex walked back in, the echo of their steps a sharp contrast to the cacophony of sounds which occupied the house. It’s mostly empty now. Of things, anyway. But my mind is still brimming with the memories.

It’s funny the things you remember when everything else is packed away. Alex picks me up, a silent nod of remembrance. I sense he has a brain full of memories, too. Perhaps of me, but maybe not. I served a small role in his life, but he gave me a sense of purpose. They all did.

She had left me here, those many years before. His mother Sophie was always doing things like that. Picking me up, putting me down, never quite finding a place for me. She did this with most of her possessions. I can’t say I minded, really. I got to see more that way. Sometimes the edges of a table, other days the far reaches of the ceiling. I was especially excited when I could play with the frames. Over the years I had developed quite the taste for art. Even if they were just cheap prints, I appreciated them all the same. I helped them find their place, even though I never quite had one.

The beginning of my life in this house started with a simple line. Alex’s. As soon as he could stand on his own two feet, I came to the rescue to measure the, well, feat.

It was a good day. The room was full of smiles. The first of many shared in the house.

Soon, there were more lines. As Alex grew, out I came, stretched taut against the cream-colored walls. Sometimes Sophie would mark them, other times, her husband, Mark. He was aptly named on those occasions.

Mark took secret pleasure in using me often. This was perhaps why Sophie’s refusal to keep me in one place frustrated him so much. Where would he find me when he needed me most? Which was a lot. He worked with wood, and would often say, “measure twice, cut once”. I was always happy to oblige. Some of my fondest memories are in his workshop, nestled amongst piles of shavings. I always had a soft spot for the smell of linseed oil. My ends would shine extra brightly in anticipation. I knew I would be needed.

Mark kept me busy, despite Sophie’s best efforts to keep me hidden away. Alex, however, quickly grew tired of the “line making ritual”.

When he started developing peculiar marks on his face and his voice began to deepen was I think when he became especially contrarian. My fellow house spirits told me it was puberty. The socks had quite the yarn to spin, I’ll tell you! But that’s a story for another day.

It was a rough time for Alex, made more so when Lucy joined the ranks. Sophie brought me out again for this special occasion. How she found me underneath the refrigerator, I will never know. Alex had thrown me under there one evening in a refusal to play the measurement game. “I’m too old for this!” he cried in defiance.

I think this is why Sophie and Mark had another baby. The teenage years wore them both down, and they were eager for a new start.

I dutifully measured the walls, alllowing for just enough space for the crib. But Lucy, like Alex, quickly grew. I remember the first time she discovered me, tucked into her bed sheets. I can’t imagine I was a very comfortable companion compared to her stuffed animals, but I seemed to keep her amused. Mark was less amused, of course.

If memory serves, I recall words like, “choking hazard”, “ irresponsible”, and “unfit mother” being thrown around a lot after that. I could never understand what all the fuss was about, but Sophie didn’t use me much at all after that. In fact, she grew rather quiet in the years that passed. Mark left shortly after.

But their loss was my gain. As Lucy grew, she gave me a renewed sense of purpose. She would play with me during any free moments she could. I was more than happy to oblige her peculiar interest.

She grew particularly fond of dress making. Unlike her brother, she channeled her teenage years into the creative arts. The theatre offered her a sense of solace. A place to escape. A new world, with new people. She could once again be in a happy family, even if only for a few scenes.

She delighted in dressing her characters, with no detail spared. I learned of fantastical fabrics and tantalizing textures. Silk was my favorite. Soft, sensual, and always hugged the curves in all the right places. Lucy took special care to always get the measurements right, remembering her Dad’s advice. She’d leave me on the weekends to see him, I think.

She was intrigued by his wood working, but clothing was more her speed. It was certainly safer. I got to know Mark’s power tools after a few years, and they weren’t the most forgiving of creatures. So for Sophie, it was costumes. Less blood, more fun.

Sophie left me when she went off to school. She probably found another “me”, I suppose, given she ended up making clothing for Broadway shows. She didn’t visit home much, even after her Mom got sick. And her Dad never came back.

Now, it’s just Alex and me. He takes a wistful look in my direction before scooping me up in his hands and into his pocket.

Now I have a new home, his. Alex lives alone. Sort of. He’s used me only once since we got here. I met his mantle and the soft curves of the white ledge of his fireplace, dutifully measuring for the space in the center. He scribbled numbers into a notebook before retrieving a decorative vessel from a box. It looked heavy.

He placed it in the center of the mantle, careful to wipe the space clear of dust beforehand. “Hi, Mom”, he croaked. “Bye, Mom”.

He wiped a tear from his eye, and pocketed me once again. How do you measure a life?