Ghosts litter the island. They stir as I pass. They resurrect memories of picnics eaten, things said, walks undertaken, and days out; a myriad of smells and sounds and snapshots from a living album lost under the junk hoarded in my mind. But you look, and you see nothing. You huff, you roll your eyes and you tug at my hand when my feet falter again. You groan at another of my anecdotes, for I am the queen of the boring story, and you don’t want to be part of my court.
To me the island is a patchwork of my past. To you it is just another place. The resentment I feel when you drag me away is probably equal to your boredom.