#memory booth

He looks like many men. Your grandfather. Your neighbor. Your brother. An old friend. The mailman. A random stranger. An odd but perfect cultivation that, when you look at him, you find yourself feeling nostalgic.

It’s a fitting thing, when you see his booth. It's old and sturdy. There are stories in the shelves themselves if you know where to look. The grooves and wood stain. The dings and scratch marks. The feel of the woodgrain when you brush your fingertips across it. 

But there's more than just the shelves. 

The bits and bobs that decorate them. Chipped plates and old photographs of places you've never seen. Remnants of people you've never seen, might never meet. An old pair of earrings. A stained tie. A chewed up pen. Homemade gloves. 

Small things made their home on the shelves but that was not all. 

There were bigger things. 

A body length mirror with fingerprints on the glass. A baby's cradle with tiny teeth marks on one corner. A bicycle with a flat wheel and missing bell. 

There was even a kitchen sink that leaked. 

But no matter the size or what it was, it looked normal. No need to change it. Everything was in its rightful place. All put together in just the right way. 

Among it all is the man. He sits or stands behind his little counter decorated with more things. His fingers at home tapping on the wood or turning the pages of a book. 

He waits. 

He waits for you to come by. To go perusing the shelves and pick an item, a memory. For you to leave one behind.

He'll keep it safe and sound. It'll be perfectly fine in his booth, don't you worry. 

Then when you're feeling nostalgic and wish to remember the gentle touch of your mother's hand or the taste of the first meal you cooked on your own, come to the man's booth. He'll give you back the bits and bobbles you left behind. 

Then he'll go back behind the counter of his odd yet perfect little booth, where stories were in and on the shelves, waiting for another visitor. 

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