Amelia Ngavisi

Inheritance

It’s been eight years since my father died and as I stand here by this by this beautiful loch, the memories of it all dance across my mind, as fresh and real as the grass beneath my feet. It’s been eight years since he passed and eight years since he left me alone in an attic picking up the pieces that would change my life forever. I stood there in the empty eerie silence and began to pack up what remained of my father’s life. The boxes quickly began to pile up, until all that remained was one last shelf of books and an old ornate writing desk. My father loved to read, he would get lost in the worlds created in the pages of his books, he would always tell me of the adventures we could go on just by turning a page. Lost in the memories and sadness of his passing, I sat down to pack the last shelf. Amongst the books on this shelf was a small black notebook, hidden behind some larger books. At first glance there was nothing special about it and as I casually leafed through it, I realised a few of the pages didn’t make any sense, but in my haste to finish and get out I tossed it into the draw of the old writing desk and forgot about it. Once I finished packing the rest of the boxes and I headed downstairs and arranged to have a few bits of furniture, including the old writing desk to be delivered to my small Melbourne apartment.