Stories told at hearth.

Something stale emerged from that debris, something which diffused instantaneously to the surface of my thoughts and conquered my mind for the next hour or so. Something that potent. I have noticed it plenty a times, grey and olden memories don’t take too long to come back to you. Mach. They strike you, and all of a sudden, present is left entangled in the ticks of clock and you’re gone.

I have always been fond of those traditional village plotted old tales which our Grandma’s narrate when light goes of and the ambience is illuminated by dim romantic candle limelight. Romanticism soon meddles the typical being of flies, the dripping sweat, the uncharged cell phone and the fast track life and I melt in the tales of times when grey was golden.

How many of us remember that white bearded ghost who haunts kids when they refuse to sleep at night? Or that tooth fairy who in return of our tooth gives us money? or the stories of that old tree in the garden, it’s fruits and that swing? the fiction of those stretched evenings by the lake and harsh decisions by the villagers, the recital of ode and tales of roaming around in fields at night?

Grandma’s make it all sound so interesting by the hearth. She smiles, amuses, laughs, questions, assumes and feels every word that is told. I’ve heard many such, All of it by the hearth. Grandma is no more, but that fireplace absorbed her scent, her stories, I can re-hear them any time I want, All I have to do is to walk up to the hearth.

Love you Grand ma! Miss you.