Memories And Marigolds

The recently recognized movement of gender equality and the acceptance of subjective gender identity rather than anatomical is pushing sport towards change. It’s a subject in which there needs to be more research and debates before any decision is made as a wrong decision could hugely harm athletes and sports communities. Fairness ensures the maintenance of meaningful competition, and that is the significance of sport.

Memories and Marigolds BY BRIONY & ILINCA VEDANGINI - EDITOR

The sound of heels clashing against the marble floor echoed throughout the empty white room. A white so bright that her eyes would hurt if the paint hadn't been so worn out in certain places. The dusty corners, some splattered stains on the ceiling. There was a huge window behind her, but the light coming in was just so blinding that she could not bear to face it. She could only guess what the view would be like, gorgeous, so high up in the sky with cars running around like tiny ants around the city. It was so far down and yet she swore she could hear their murmurs and silent screams somehow reaching up.

The woman was simply so absorbed by the hideous pristine nature of the complex that the guide had to repeat himself a few times to get her attention.

“Miss Bennet? Can you hear me?” She nodded briefly as a response, black dots blinking in and out of view. The man started walking down the corridor, his perfectly calculated steps leading the way. They walked and walked and the walls were just the same white for that it seemed like miles, no furniture, weirdly patterned shiny marble floors. This apartment was supposed to make her feel welcome. So far it had only done the opposite. They kept walking.

The man stopped beside a tall desk. A desk! The woman checked for wood, a desk must have wood! But it was all metal. Metal and marble and rotten paint in a room so large and empty that it made her feel claustrophobic.

“I’ll have to ask you to sign this form, miss.” “Form? What for? I haven’t decided anything yet.” The receptionist gave her a pitying, practised smile, seemingly one he’d given many times before, as he placed a pen in the woman’s hand. Handing her the form.

How had she gotten here?

She couldn’t remember. “I’m sorry, I don’t feel so well. I think I’d like to leave.” The man grimaced. “Where to, Miss Bennet?”

Her cottage. Her sisters, her dog. The iron gate she left open, spilling onto the gravel road, last springtime littered with daisies. The mailbox, spilling over with letters and magazines she hadn’t had time to open. That she wouldn’t have time to open.

Her cottage. The kitchen, filled with sunlight and the smell of afternoon tea, forest fruits with honey. Her dirty mugs, left out by the kettle, the dregs sat at the bottom of each, as despondent as the rest of the house.

Their last picnic. A blanket stretched out, the last of their lemonade, jam sandwiches inside wicker baskets. In the forest clearing, where once she had strung up fairy lights, the twinkling of stars as a backdrop for their night of celebration. Congratulations, they said, to have your own house, your own farm. So young. How did you do it? they asked. Their questions, as alight in her as the fireflies that held back the darkness. But no one asked No one thought That maybe

It would be dangerous

To live all alone.

Her table. Usually covered with the scattered drawings of a madman, mushrooms and frogs and lilies. Heartfelt drawings on greeting cards and stamps. Stamps she would sell in the marketplace in town, making couples laugh and children giggle. For once, her pencils were all neatly packed away.

The same house she had once filled with laughter, her nieces sat on pillows playing with stuffed animals, embroidered with robins. Her siblings, watering her potted plants, spilling mud onto the wooden floor, hitting their heads on the low ceilings covered in fairy lights.

Wearing dark colors as they trudge around the living room. Holding bouquets of wildflowers.

Her flowers.