She Lives in Memories “Ellie, it’s time to go!” Mum called from the car. I ran to her as fast as my Elsa heels would let me. She buckled me into my car seat. My face was lit with a huge smile, as we were heading to my favourite place in the whole world. My Grandmother’s house. The place where we spent each night nestled up on her velvet couch, tightly wrapped in a scratchy woollen blanket. She would tell stories of her childhood as a young girl, the warm fire dancing behind us, while the aroma of freshly baked cookies wafted through the doorways. To me, this was heaven. ** 15 Years Later ** Exactly one month ago was the funeral.

I cried and cried, but nothing I could say or do would bring my grandmother back. Now I stand on the edge of her property, for the first time since she passed. I pull open the gate. A gate that has been closed for so many weeks. It creaks as it moves, like old tree branches scratching against each other in heavy wind. The grass beyond the fence line is tall, untidy, but somehow it feels more cared for than normal grass. Each blade holds a memory, frozen with the frosts. Preserved in time. Small rocks stick up between the blades of yellow tussocks.

Far below me, down the Carrick town mountains, the Mata-au river winds its way through the valley, meeting with the Kawarau and merging with a twist of colours. The Pisa range stands tall and proud on the side, a silent guardian for the town of Cromwell below. I look up. Standing there is the house my Grandmother grew up in. Its paint is faded, a skeleton of its former self. I can almost imagine the garden, the smoke spiralling from the chimney. “I was sitting on the front steps, staring out at the snowy mountains,” Grandma once whispered to me, the fire cackling behind us. Below the wooden door, two concrete steps lie.

It’s as if I can see her small body sitting there, her hair tied in plaits with her favourite flowy white ribbon, looking out at the desolate landscape. I walk forward. Then I see it. Behind the house, a crumbled structure stands. The old gold miner’s cottage. The ground is overgrown with weeds and grass. The walls that still stand are corroded and weathered. Its side wall has fallen, its roof caved in. Although the frame is broken, the memory of her is clear.

The wind rolls down the Carrick town mountains. I can almost hear my grandmother's laugh, high-pitched and full of joy. The stone wall is cold under my fingers, rough yet unforgotten. “We weren’t supposed to go into that house,“ Grandma would say. “Mother said it was dangerous, but I saw a butterfly. I remember it so clearly, its wings were bright yellow. It was beautiful. So I chased it.” I can picture her winding through the door, chasing a yellow butterfly. Her feet pounding on the dry grass. Her hands winding over the speckled bricks. Her silky plaits flapping over her shoulders. Inside, an old fireplace stands. Small rocks lie lifeless in the base. Metal scraps rest on the grass.

“I tried to capture it in a pot, but it flew too high. I couldn’t reach it.” The image plays in my head, her jumping and squealing, holding a copper pot. I glance around. There, on the windowsill, reflected in the Central Otago sunlight, is a small butterfly. It's not yellow like the one my grandmother chased around, but a glassy white. The same shade of pearl ribbon my Grandmother always wore. It twirls in the twinkling dust, fluttering its pale wings. It flies softly through the air, twisting in the wind, then out the door. I follow it slowly, then faster as it circles higher and higher, until it is all but a speck in the clear sky.

I linger for a moment, watching the cloudless abyss that rises far above. Standing here, on this property, I finally feel like I belong. I can feel my grandmother’s presence. Although she is no longer here with me, she is here in memory. She will always be here. In my heart. In this house. Running around these fallen walls. Chasing a yellow butterfly.