The Memory Shop

[Reddit Post]

r/grief

u/haony20

My gramps passed away two years ago in October of 2024. It was unexpected and the grief was overwhelming.

A few weeks ago, I saw a post on here about a place called The Memory Shop. Apparently they can take any fabric that belonged to a lost loved one and weave in a magical thread. Once the object is enchanted, you can travel back through your loved one’s memories and experience moments of their life exactly as they did. The shop will appear to anyone desperate enough who goes searching.

Earlier this week I brought in one of my gramp’s old hankies. I’ve already gone back through a few of his memories and honestly I don’t know how to explain what it’s done for me. I’ve seen moments of his life, heard his thoughts and seen him through just about every type of emotion.

Somehow, it’s giving me a closure I never thought possible.

TL;DR: There’s a hidden shop where they can weave in a magic that lets you experience the memories of lost loved ones.

I reread the post on my phone and looked up. Hidden in the narrow alleyway, there was a tiny brick shop with ornately stained glass windows and a jungle of plants decorating the pavement. A small sign hung above the door “The Memory Shop.” It was exactly what I had imagined when I’d first read the Reddit post.

Inside felt even smaller. There were three steps to the counter which spanned nearly the entire width of the shop. A handful of clothing pieces were on display in the small space. Knit beanies, fuzzy wool socks, scarves of every color and handkerchiefs with every pattern. The room had an almost overpowering scent of fresh lilies covering the fainter smell of musty old building. The smell reminded me too much of the last time I’d seen my grandma, laying in a casket at the front of the room looking peaceful in an eternal sleep.

A petite woman emerged from a curtain of beads that obscured the back room. She had long gray hair and a round face that looked too small beneath her large black glasses.

“How can I help you today?” the woman asked. Her voice had a natural shake to it.

I took a deep breath and clinched my grandma’s old pink sweater a little tighter. “My name is Bea and I-“ I stopped. There was no sane way to ask someone if they could enchant your clothes with magic. “What do you sell here?” I asked instead.

The woman smiled and looked at me over her glasses. “Since you’ve found me, I’m pretty sure you already know.” Leaning over the counter, she nodded at the fabric I was holding and held out her hand. I gave her the sweater.

“Everything tells a story,” she continued, “but I should warn you, you don’t get to choose the memories that you see.”

“I don’t care.” I said, “I want to remember everything. She was my best. But she was diagnosed with dementia years ago. Sometimes I feel like I don’t even remember who she really was before.”

Her smile fell, “Most people think they want to remember but you only want the happy times. My magic doesn’t work like that. It’s not sweet like honey but rather as unpredictable as the weather. You may not see the memories you like.”

“That’s alright.” I said, too quickly.

“Okay.” The old woman said, grabbing a slip of paper by the register. “Leave me your phone number and I can call you when the garment is ready.”

When I finished scribbling my number she locked eyes with me. Her gaze was so intense tiny goosebumps rose on my arms. “Remember my warning though. Magic can’t be tamed.”

When I retrieved the sweater the old woman had it wrapped in a small green box, tied close with darker green ribbon and a dried rose in place of a bow.

“Sometimes magic changes things.” She said it so softly that I barely heard her. “This garment holds a lot. Please don’t forget my warnings from before.” As soon as I grabbed the box, the woman shooed me out. “NO RETURNS!” she yelled as the door closed behind me.

I practically ran home and ripped open the box. I had to bury my anger as I saw the sweater Grandma always wore was now a small scarf. The lady should have warned me that she would transform it into something different. I would have brought in something less precious. I ignored the disappointment that weighed heavy in my belly and took in a deep breath of the fabric. Rose water perfume - at least it still smelled like her. As long as the magic worked it would all be worth it.

When I wrapped the pink scarf around my neck I was instantly transported back to my happy place. Sitting at Grandma’s kitchen table, a spring breeze swept through the open window bringing in the smell of fresh flowers. Grandpa was standing at the counter near an open box of Krispy Kreme donuts. I could hear children laughing right outside the back door.

I glanced toward the door and a woman was reflected in the glass. She had sun-kissed skin, baby blue eyes, and brown curls cut into a familiar bob. My breath caught. It was Grandma. No - not exactly. It was me. Or rather, I’m her.

Before I could make sense of it three children came barreling into the kitchen from the back door.

“Donuts!” one of the girls shouted. It was me. The real me and I couldn’t be older than five. My brother and sister were at my heels.

The children plopped down in the seats around me and looked at their grandpa by the counter. Three versions of “can we have some?” and “I’m so hungry,” melded together into gibberish.

I felt myself smile at them before I made myself serious again. “Sorry, kids.” I said and the words came out in Grandma’s voice, “Grandpa and I already ate all the donuts. I think we have some oatmeal left for you though.”

Heartbreak and devastation spread across the table along with a chorus of groans. I wanted to tell them I was joking but another part of me - the part that was my Grandma, was enjoying the prank.

“I don’t like oatmeal,” five year old Bea said, her voice wavering and her eyes filled with tears.

I pressed my lips together but the corners of my mouth twitched upward. Always so gullible. The thought wasn’t mine but I could feel it as clearly as if someone had whispered it into my ear. The feeling was strange and a little creepy.

“Oh, Bea.” I reached over and poked her gently on the shoulder. “Don’t take everything so seriously.” I could feel the smile spread across my face. A laugh burst from my mouth, so loud that it filled the whole space. “There’s plenty of donuts for everyone, Grandpa can help you get one.”

The three kids launched themselves toward the donuts and warmth bloomed inside my chest.

Love. It wasn’t the love I remember feeling for Grandma but it must have been the love she felt for me. It was enormous and filled every corner of me, so familiar and yet completely foreign.

The kitchen began to blur and the smell of flowers faded. The warmth in my chest lingered for one last moment before everything disappeared.

When I opened my eyes I was back in my own body, dizzy from the transition. It took a moment for my apartment to come back into focus. The place was such a disaster that Grandma would be rolling in her grave.

I had discarded the scarf box on the counter next to the piles of various dishes and bottles that had accumulated throughout the week. My bedroom was even messier, with dirty clothes spilling off my bed and around my floor. I really should do some laundry but that would be a problem for future me.

The first memory was exactly what I had hoped for. I had almost forgotten Grandma and Grandpa’s old house and the fun we had as kids staying the night. Grandma loved to joke around and trick us but it was all part of the fun. As much as she loved a good prank, she loved being tricked just as much.

I couldn’t wait to see what else the scarf had in store for me. I threw myself onto the bed and wrapped the scarf around my neck once more.

This time when I blinked, I was staring directly into the reflection of my grandma’s sapphire eyes.

I was applying her signature rosy pink lipstick. Her makeup was the kind of perfect that must have taken time and her silver dress was elegant. In the mirror, she looked beautiful. But as I looked, my thoughts got louder.

My cheeks are too full.

When did my wrinkles get so deep?

I look like an old lady.

If I could only lose 15 more pounds.

I froze. These weren’t my thoughts, they were Grandma’s. I had always thought my grandma was beautiful. She took pride in her appearance and could dazzle a room. I’d never considered that maybe all that effort came from the opposite place. Maybe she wasn’t dressing up because she knew she was beautiful but because she was afraid she wasn’t.

I caught movement in the mirror and saw a woman and teenage girl walk through the door. It was me - the real me, and my mom.

I remembered this day. It was my cousin’s wedding and Mom and I had just gotten into a big fight because we were running late and I wouldn’t stop reading. My book was so good and getting dressed up had never really been my thing.

Mom had yelled when I told her I thought I looked fine the way I was. I had brushed my wavy brown hair neatly back and I would be wearing a nice dress. Apparently, that wasn’t good enough.

I remembered the argument but I didn’t remember this.

“Cindy, Bea!” I watched as Grandma’s face lit up in the mirror. Her smile faltered, “Bea, you’re not even dressed yet.”

Before teenage-Bea could answer, Mom cut in. “I know, Ma. I’ve got it.” She said, sounding exasperated. “Bea, your dress is over there on the bed.” She pointed, then moved beside me to touch-up her own makeup.

My pulse jumped, this was not something we could be late for. “Cindy, we have to leave in less than five minutes,” I scolded. “How will she get ready in time?”

“She just wants to wear the dress. She doesn’t want to do anything else. She won’t even let me do her hair.”

Anger heated my veins. “You should have made her. She needs to learn to put in the extra effort.”

“She’s a teenager. There’s only so much I can do.”

“I don’t care. You’re being lazy and you know it. Parents these days are too lenient. You let her get away with anything and then wonder why she doesn’t listen. Where did I go wrong raising you?” I tisked. I knew it was a little cruel but she wasn’t understanding and I had taught her better.

I watched Cindy’s face crumple but annoyance prickled my skin.

“Let’s just go.” I looked Cindy over once more. “Shoulders back,” I said, “and suck in.” I paused and tried to smile, “at least you look nice.”

I turned to Bea. “Bea, you should at least put some lipstick on.”

The memory dissolved quickly and I was back in my bed. I yanked the scarf off. That wasn’t what I wanted. Of course I knew Grandma wasn’t perfect but what was the point in dwelling on the negative. Everyone had flaws. I wanted the donuts and her laugh. I wanted the Grandma I knew how to miss.

I stared at the scarf lying beside me. If it was going to give me the bad with the good like the shop lady had said, I’d just have to find a way to pull myself out of the negative memories and find the happy ones.

I set my jaw and picked up the scarf. One more try.

Before I even opened my eyes I could feel a fog settle over my mind. When I finally looked, I knew I was in my mom’s house, sitting in my grandma’s chair - the one she had practically lived in for her final years. I knew this but as I sat here I could feel my thoughts melding with Grandma’s.

The confusion was overpowering. I’m here but… why am I here? I’m late for work. I have to get up and get ready to go. My body ached as I leaned forward in the chair, a sharp pain shot up my spine and I sucked in a breath.

I reached for the walker in front of me and stared at my hands. Old lady hands with pale, wrinkled skin stretched over thin bones.

“Grandma, where are you going?” my sister, Alice said. No, not my sister - myself, my real self, Bea. Except, she looked just like Alice. No, she looked like Bea, my granddaughter, I’d know her anywhere. My mind throbbed trying to untangle the mystery.

“I need to get ready for work, Bea.” I said. “I’m running late.”

I tried to stand but my body wouldn’t cooperate with me.

“You don’t have to work today. You have the day off.” Alice says with a smile. “We get to hang out today!”

I frowned. How would she know my work schedule?

“No that’s not right,” I said and clenched my jaw. I knew it wasn’t right. I knew it down to my aching bones. Something was wrong.

I reached for the walker again but Alice was suddenly beside me, her hand closing gently around mine.

“Let me help you, Grandma,” Alice smiled again and something about it sent a shiver down my spine.

“We have to lock the doors.” I told her, my voice was barely a whisper.

“I’ve already locked them,” she said.

“No. I need to go lock them.” I could feel my heart beating like a drum in my chest. “Strange men are roaming around outside. They’ll break in.” I could feel the danger with certainty.

“It’s okay, Grandma. I’ve locked the doors.” Alice repeated.

“I just have to check.” I bit the words out and ground my jaw. Why won’t she listen to me? No one ever listens to me anymore.

Alice stepped away but before I could move she was back with a cup of water and a little white pill. “Here. Take this, it’ll help you feel better.”

My stomach twisted. “You’re trying to poison me.” I accused her. I knew it. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong.

“This is your anxiety pill,” Alice said patiently, “it’ll help you feel better.”

I looked up into Alice’s eyes - Bea’s eyes, my real eyes - and somewhere deep down I knew she was telling me the truth.

But I also knew my body hurt, I was in a strange place and there were people trying to break in. We were running very late but Bea was not going to leave me alone until I took the stupid pill. I rolled my eyes, frustration boiled within me. With a huff I took the glass and she set the pill on my tongue.

I swallowed and the memory disappeared.

I shot up from the bed, the scarf still wrapped around my neck. My heart thudded against my ribs. I grabbed the knitted fabric and tugged it off.

This wasn’t what I wanted when I visited the Memory Shop. I wanted to remember my grandma before dementia. I wanted the woman who bought donuts and loved pranks. The one who thought a little lipstick could solve any problem. I wanted to remember all the happy times we had together. Not this.

I had already grieved my grandma twice - first, when the disease took her away piece by piece and then again when she passed. I didn’t want to grieve her a third time.

I stared at the scarf lying in my lap. Grandma had been confused. She’d been scared and angry and was always yelling at me before she passed. She had thought I wanted to poison her.

But none of it was her fault.

For the first time, I understood that terror that she had lived in. She’d forgotten the dementia and had been left only with the feeling that something was wrong. Grandma had been trapped inside a world that kept changing in ways she didn’t understand. She’d been so scared.

My eyes filled with tears. I thought about the woman in the kitchen, laughing over a box of donuts. The woman staring into the mirror convinced she was too old and heavy. The woman sitting in her chair, terrified that strangers would break in.

They were all Grandma. Not just the good parts I wanted to remember but also the ruffed up edges from a woman who had lived.

For the first time since she died, I felt like I didn’t have to ignore the tougher memories. Grandma had gone through her own trials and had always come out stronger. She was loving, funny, stubborn, frightened, selfish, generous, resentful, confused, and occasionally wrong. But she loved her family fiercely and I loved her for it.

I reached for the scarf again, but this time I didn’t put it around my neck. I held it tightly against my chest and sat there for a long moment, tears slid down my cheeks like quiet rivers. I smiled.

“I remember you, Grandma,” I whispered.