AnYi 安亦

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Your character picks up a locket or a frame. Explain its contents and their significance.

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There’s only one part of moving house that I enjoy, and that’s playing judge to the assorted piles of crap that have accumulated over the years. I’d happily also fill the roles of jury and executioner, but for some reason people still live by this archaic rule that only the owner can throw their stuff away. One day I will make them see sense, though. And the floor while I’m at it.

The vans are a few weeks away, yet, so we’re only working on the attic right now. Casting about for my first target, it makes me laugh to see the obvious line between the neat boxes from our childhood and the jungle of unneeded clothes, utensils, and furnishings from post-move.

“What’s so funny?” Mum asks, tentatively picking up a box just to peer inside and place it back in basically the same place.

“Nothing.” I reply, immediately alerted by her actions. “What’s in the box?”

“I don’t even know.”

“So bin then?” She doesn’t answer – just sighs and tosses it in the big black bag.

The two of us work like this for a while – me allowing her a few small victories on items that are ‘sentimental’ or ‘actually quite expensive’ or mine, and her dejectedly throwing away box after box of stuff she hasn’t seen or even thought about in multiple years. We’re making good progress on the jungle – really getting into a rhythm – when I get a touch over-zealous and tip open one of those childhood boxes with a stray golf club. My first instinct is to pack it all back up before mom sees it and gets all mopey, but I spot something amongst the spill that I don’t remember from the last time we dove into these boxes. A little silver locket – closer to shiny-new than banged-up-old, but clearly worn – that seems familiar for some reason. I flip it open to find a young man I don’t recognise holding baby me.

“Mom… Who’s this man holding me as a baby?”

“Probably your dad.” She’s still rooting around in the binbag, the invitation to get over here and look clearly sailing over her head.

“It looks nothing like dad, and I don’t recognise him at all.” Her shuffling noises stopped.

A moment later, she was clambering across the floor towards me to peer over my shoulder. “Oh!” She exclaimed, her voice a mingling of surprise and relief, “That’s not you honey – it’s me and your grandad. I should really show you more pictures.” She takes the necklace with a chuckle and quickly fastens it around her neck. She turns back to work, and I’m left wondering why there’s a red flush creeping up her neck.