In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Out of Your Reach.”

And also, to Jeffcolemanwrites, kindly

I had published a post with a similar topic to these above, few months ago, and with the same Prompt,as it recurres like if it was, for in a same dream that we do sometimes, the one like we find ourselves in a place we had never hbeen there before, but it recalls to us that like we knew it same as it has been always our place that where we live, thence I would love to share one of those things that we keep deep in our memories, we treasure since childhood. And sometimes,the other day, although l changed my itinerary to go to work,  it chanced  that I passed by the same store where I had spotted it lately, the same object in à-propos; and it was still there, in display, and what a coincidence! How can small things trigger you sometimes to the core of the marrow, and in a split of an eye-blink it sent you some decades back to the days of childhood. Then,I was astonishing by such, and such of a propinquity of things can accomplish: of being in the same place, with an object long wished for at out of your reach, and at the same time, of different epochs.

I just turned seven years old then,  and that year I had contracted some kind kids rush that had kept me home and from going to school. It was Chrismas Eve, an event drive was set up to distribute the gifts, and I couldn’t go to pick-up my gift, a Secret Santa wish-list; and it was a guitar that I had wished for.

So, after recovery, the day I was back to school, the teacher had kept my gift for me, it locked in the cabinet with the school supplies, I was happy then, when he give it to me, well wrapped with glossy paper-wrap, and a best-wishes card, and recovery for me, from the whole class, tapped on it.

Back home, and once I unwrapped it, I was so disappointed to discover that it wasn’t the gift that I had wished for, instead it was a banal toy, a corvette replica-car, with a static motion drives back to those times, with no batteries powered motor yet.

l never had a guitar, since. It was something , “Out of Your Reach.” Although I played guitar later on, and I could afford it, but it had never crossed my mind to have one once grown up.


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I am an autodidact writer, and enough of an artist, to draw upon my imagination_I can't pretend here, to imitate Einstein's expression, nor to profess having enough knowledge of that sort, credit is, where credit is due, noblety obliged, nor to build equations, or quest forlost gravity, still, having this audacity to emitate Mr. Einstein one's expression is a crime of Lese-majeste, and to not being an imbued person, first, pardon my intrusive Introduction, but isn't it imitating someone, the same as, like of gardening and planting coliflowers? Maybe Orchids... Secondo, I just have borrowed his quote _"knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world ", for the pumps and circumstance, and just for the sake blogging, put it that way down to paper, and to fancy make an old dream of mine comes true, perhaps one day, and if time permitting, a would-be a writer and having enough ingredients for writing prose and possibly poetry _Thankful always to my reader for stopping by, and To all the followers: Thank you for following my blog, regularly, and by your likes on my posts, you're encouraging me each time, to persist and strive to do better for blogging than the sensational, and to take the risk to be boring sometimes ; please send me your feeds Thanks you again extra large for your patience _Modestly speaking: _Inspirational Dr. Seuss's quote: _“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And You are the one who’ll decide where to go.” ― Dr. Seuss

2 thoughts on “Memorabilia”

  1. I’m glad you enjoyed my blog 🙂 I have a somewhat similar story. When I was four years old, my mom bought me a toy cash register. It was the coolest thing in the world. But she wouldn’t let me use it until I cleaned my room. Being the stubborn child that I was, I refused, even though it meant I wouldn’t get my toy. For years, I would pine for the lost cash register at the top of my closet, so close yet out of reach. When I was finally allowed to play with it, I discovered I was too old to enjoy it.

    It’s fascinating how an old memory can come to haunt us out of nowhere.


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