The memory shop

At some point in time, in a city built under a steep hill, during an easy-going night, a young man was walking through the empty-ish streets of the old part of the town. It was just him and the old benches in the middle of the road, keeping him company, and yet at the same time reminding him of something. Distracted by the steady hiss of the wind and a group of noisy teenagers somewhere in the distance, he was trying to remember what it was, but he couldn't. "Oh well", he thought,"it will probably come back to me. Just not now". The small shops in the old part of the city, typical for the architecture of the old Ottoman empire, were passing by, mesmerizing, hypnotizing, but still so familiar. After all, he passed by them so many times. However, just as he passed around a street corner, he made a step back,"Oops, wait. I've never seen this here before". A dim light was shining through the windows of a house not bigger then a small garage, and a board hanging above it had a hand-carved caption "Memory shop". He entered just as if he was looking for it the whole evening. An older gentleman with a kind face greeted him: "Good evening, young man. Did you come to claim some of your abandoned memories? Can I interest you with a set of someone else's memories maybe? Hmmm....let me see.....how about a memory of a child getting a chess board as a present for his 6th birthday? Or maybe you are looking for something more spicy? A first kiss maybe?". The young man was utterly confused. The first instinct was that the old man is plain crazy, and that he should get out of there, but for some strange reason, he did not do so.Was it the mild scent of flowers in the air or for the shopkeepers kind green eyes, he couldn't tell. Maybe it was just that good old curiosity. "What is this place?", the young man asked. "It is just what it says it is: a Memory shop.", the old man replied. "This here is my home, and in here I keep all the memories, forgotten, discarded, pushed away. All of them, masterless, orphaned. And I sell them to the people that want them, sometimes I even give them out for free. I think that a memory shouldn't live alone, you know"."Is this some kind of a joke?" - the young man asked. "Not at all", the old man replied, "let me show you", and just like that, with an agility and speed not common to an old man of his age, he climbed a set of wooden stairs, and reached for a dusty white cardboard box. "The white ones are children's memories, you know. I'm color coding them and white somehow seemed  the most suitable for children. They are so pure and yet their memories are the strongest ones". Inside the box, there was a set of old Polaroid photos, but they were not anything like any photo you have ever seen. "The colors are so alive, and I can almost feel the smell", the young man thought. "Oh my god, the people in the photo are MOVING", the young man said out loud, felt his knees tremble, and he felt the floor starting to move under him. The old man chuckled a bit, "You are right, yes, this is how I keep all the memories that I find", and then he started going through the photos."This box here belongs to a little girl that grew up in a poor family, and that particular photo is the moment where she watches her mother working her second job. She clearly remembers her parents struggling to give her and her two brothers the best life possible, but many, many things were left to be desired. And these other photos, oh dear. So many of them, so many memories, some of them good, but some of them even more painful then this one. This other photo, this is her standing next to her ill father, hoping for him to get better. He gave her a present once, you know? A small violin. Here is a photo of it, it is broken now, but it still holds the same spirit and the joy of the gift that it was, and it is easily reparable". "What happened to her at the end?", the young man asked. "Well", the old storekeeper replied, "she turned out fine. They all did. However these memories hurt her too much, and although she comes and revisits them from time to time, the pain the memories give her, is still unbearable. She is understanding, though slowly, that those memories are hers, and that she should keep them for her, that those memories are a part of her and what she is, as she is a part of them. One of these days, she will come to claim them, and this box will leave me for good. That is why these, my young friend, are not for sale".

It all seemed like a dream to the young man. "How is this possible? I must be dreaming", he was telling to himself, but the strong smell of flowers in the air, was standing all around him, denying his disbelief. "But.......but why are people discarding their memories? Do they simply forget?".The old man stared at him for a while, and then smiled at him."Nothing is simple in this world, lad. And forgetting is most certainly not. People choose to forget, because they are hurt, angry, sometimes even ashamed. People choose to discard their memories, sometimes because they cannot handle the pain someone or something caused them, sometimes because they are too selfish, and do not want to remember the pain they caused someone. Like I said, forgetting is anything but simple" ,said the shopkeeper turning swiftly around his heels. The old man browsed the shelves with his lively eyes, and grabbed a bit larger red box, and then slowly put it on the table, as if it would break on landing. "Take a look at this, lad", he said. "Memories of a young woman, a whole bunch of them, all discarded and left to rot in this box."."What happened there?", the young man asked. "All of these", the shopkeeper said, "are memories of the mistakes she made. This here, is a photo of a young girl, a life long friend she might have had, but that she betrayed. How sad this is indeed. And this other one, is a memory of a happy moment they had together, and that she tries to discard, just so that she does not remember what she lost because of her selfishness and all the ugly things she did to her. You see this here? This is her, the memories owner, smiling her beautiful shiny smile, and wearing her red lipstick. You see lad, though it may not seem that way, that smile, and that lipstick are just a mask. She would be much happier if she would just see what she lost. These memories.... it seems that she will never ever come to claim them, and I am putting these on sale very soon. Very sad indeed, that she does not want her memories back, although she could learn much from them, but, I guess some people do not want to learn".

A sense of tingling went through the young man's spine. "All of this?? All these boxes are different people's memories? Since when do you have your shop here?". "Why, ever since I can remember.And my father kept it before me, and his father before them. This shop is as old as the first discarded memory. Someone had to take care of them, don't you think so? Look at this", the old man pulled a photo from his shirt pocket. "This is my father's memory, and this child on the photo is him, carrying a cup of milk they gave him at school just so that his younger 3-year-old brother can have it. He did not think he needed it as he was a 7-year old, a man grown, heh. He was a fighter, always.".And on the photo, a boy in a pair of short pants and an old sweater, carrying an iron cup, was walking straight, with a stern face, looking like he already understood the world. In a way, he already did, he was just not still aware of it.

A sharp music interrupted the silence drenched in the sweet smell of flowers. The theme of BBC's Sherlock was chiming from the young man's phone. "It's my friends,they're waiting for me", he said. "I should be going". "Please wait a second, lad", the old man said, and pulled a green box under the table. "Take these with you", he said, "take a look at them, maybe you will find them interesting and you would like to keep them. Each memory should have an owner, remember?"."Ummm....thank you, I guess, how much do I owe you for these?", the young man asked and the keeper replied "They are for free. Look at them, use them, do whatever you want, and if you don't find them interesting, you can always bring them back. I will be here. There will always be someone here"."Thank you, sir.", the young man muttered, took the box in one hand while clumsily trying to put his phone back into his pocket."Have a pleasant evening, sir"."You too lad, and remember",the shopkeeper said, "our memories are a part of us, just as we are a part of them. That bond has to mean something, yes?". "Sure it does", the young man replied, and went back to the stony streets of the old town. The sharp sting of the winter air, made him realize that he is still awake. How much time did it pass? 10 minutes? An hour? He couldn't tell.

He started walking in the direction of the pub where his friends were waiting for him. The green box in his hand, had the still lingering flowery smell of the old memory shop, and somehow with it, it was tingling the young man's curiosity.He opened the box, and inside he saw a photo of a teenage boy, holding a sandwich for a woman sitting on a bench in the park. The boy did look familiar, and at first he did not understand it, but then he did recognize the woman. Suddenly it all came back to him. It was HIS memory, and it was him and his mother on the photo. That was the day when his mother got sick, he went to bring her something to eat by the orders of the doctor, and although she was completely unaware of where or who she was at that moment, she managed to say one thing: "You should take it son, you haven't eaten anything today". This is what the benches in the old town reminded him of, this was exactly what he couldn't remember. He closed the box and started running back to the shop. Just as he reached the street corner where the shop was, he stopped, but instead of an old shop, a bakery was in it's place, and a big man, with flour all over his hands was standing in front of him. "Excuse me", the young man said, "isn't this shop owned by an older gentleman? Have you seen him?"."No", the baker replied, "this is my shop. How did the old man look like?". "Well he was about my height, grey hair, a pair of green eyes.", the young man said. "Green, like....what....bright green, dark green?" the baker asked. "Umm....no, when I come to think about it, green like.....like my eyes......".

Funny thing, isn't it? It might take us a million years to understand, or it might take us a second, but sooner or later we all understand. We need our memories. We are molded by them, they are a part of us, as we are a part of them. They are our pain, our joy, our mistakes from which we should learn, building blocks of our lives. It is just a question of when and how we understand it, and what is the price that we pay until we do so. Some of us will get all of our discarded memories for free, but others will have to pay for them.

The young man, took a couple of steps back, turned and went away in a hurry, clutching a white box in his right hand. "Can I maybe offer you a piece of freshly baked cake?", the baker yelled at the young man, but the young man did not listen. "Hmm", the baker muttered in his chin, "the youngsters today.Always in a hurry".