The scent of Iceland poppies drifted through the Hampton-style house’s passage, a fragrance that had marked every spring of Roanna’s childhood. She stood before the white-framed mirror, which had witnessed countless Sunday-best adjustments and preparations over the years. Now, wrapped in white silk that caught the familiar mid-morning light streaming through the wavy-glassed windows, she felt like a photograph coming to life. Her siblings’ children — little echoes of their childhood selves — circled her like butterflies, their tiny fingers touching her wedding gown with wonder.
“Come in, Dad,” she called out, recognising the soft shuffle of his boots and the distinctive tap of his hat. The sound transported her back to Sunday mornings when that familiar shuffle meant book readings and quiet moments shared.
Her father entered, followed by Natasha, Roshin, and Durand, their faces painted with that peculiar mix of joy and sweet sorrow that seemed to belong exclusively to wedding days. A small cream-coloured velvet cover in Natasha’s hands,
“Look at this,” Natasha said, pushing aside the cushioned vanity chair that looked like they had all perched as children, sharing secrets and dreams. “We have something for you.”
Roanna moved to the centre table, watching in the mirror as her family gathered around her like a warm blanket of memories. Under the careful watch of her father, who had dressed her in her school uniform, dried her tears and taught her to ride a bicycle — she opened the box with reverent care.
“This,” he said, lifting out a delicate gold bracelet personalized with the letters J for Jayasinghe and R for Roshin, a heart shape from Durand, and an opal from Natasha. “The gold of the bracelet is made from your father’s wedding ring — the one I wore when I made my vows. Every time you wear it, you wear your family’s story.”
Natasha, the architect of this carefully assembled gift, interjected, “This is a combined family gift of the Jayasinghe clan.”
Roanna’s father’s voice carried the weight of decades as Roanna fastened it around her left wrist, the metal still holding the warmth of his hands. “We are so proud to see you wearing it today.”
Roshin stepped forward, touching the bracelet with familiar fingers. “Remember how we used to play make-believe with Dad’s watch? You always said it was magical.”
Durand cleared his throat, fighting the same emotions that had overwhelmed him.
Roanna looked down at her hands, now bearing the weight of generations. The morning light played across each piece differently — the tender gleam of the heart, the warm glow of the bracelet, the bold shine of promises kept and renewed. But nothing shone quite like the tears in her father’s eyes, the same eyes that had watched over her first steps, passing out, graduations, and getting her first P plates.
“Something old,” her father whispered, his fingers gentle against her wrist, just as they’d been when bandaging scraped knees and teaching her to write her name.
“Something that’s yours,” Natasha finished, her voice carrying echoes of shared secrets and sibling adventures in the backyard.
Roanna gathered them all close, careful of her dress but needing their warmth, solidity, and presence. No words were needed; the gold spoke of summer afternoons and winter evenings, of laughter and tears shared, of the love that had brought them to this moment, and of the father who would soon walk his last daughter down the aisle.
Later, stealing one final moment alone, Roanna caught her reflection in the mirror. The gold pieces winked in the light, carrying the weight of bedtime stories, family dinners, holidays in Sri Lanka and Christmas mornings. She touched each one in turn — each a chapter in their shared story — and smiled, knowing she carried gold and the heart of her family’s history into her new beginning.
A Child of Curiosity How inherent inquisitiveness became a key driver in learning experiences. Denzil Jayasinghe · B orn in the mid-20th century, I am a product of the post-World War II era. My parents, who were teenagers when the war commenced, married in the 1950s. As a representative of the baby boomer generation, I was born under the astrological sign of Capricorn, the tenth sign of the zodiac. My birth took place at Zoysa Nursing Home, a renowned institution in Colombo, Sri Lanka, around 5 in the morning. Sri Lanka, known for its tropical climate, is a beautiful island nation south of India. This climate appealed to me, and I sought similar weather in my twenties, spending them in Dubai, where the winter resembles an Australian summer. Raised by religious parents, I held them in deep affection. However, the church teachings posed a paradox for a young mind, instructing one to love God more than one’s parents. I initially adhered to the Ten Commandments and other societal norms in ...
Shattered Innocence A story of a needle Denzil Jayasinghe · “Shattered Innocence. A Story of a Needle” by Denzil Jayasinghe is a short story told from the perspective of a lad who discovers their father injecting insulin . This discovery shatters his innocence as he grapples with the reality of his father’s diabetes and the fear and uncertainty it brings. The story explores themes of family, responsibility, and the challenges of facing difficult realities. T he pre-dawn light filtered through the window, casting a pale glow over a scene that shattered my world. We were lost in the quiet routine of getting ready — me for the apprenticeship, my siblings for school, and my father for his work. I wandered into my parents’ room, searching for the familiar black comb. What I found wasn’t the comb but a sight that froze me in my tracks. Father, stripped down to his white undies, his usually strong face creased with worry, was doing something… di...
The Man with the Bicycle A Godfather Without English Denzil Jayasinghe 5 min read So this fellow, Wijetunga, arrived one humid afternoon in Warakanatte – a name given by the government, clipped from some dusty file in a distant ministry, and pinned onto our village like a misfitting badge. He came not with fanfare, but with the tiredness of a man who had travelled not just across provinces but across unspoken expectations. The new Grama Sevaka – government-appointed village functionary, dispenser of forms and permits, arbitrator of neighbourly disputes, and authoriser of rice ration books. He hailed from Enderamulla, a place that stirred vague murmurs among the older women in our family – whispers of ancestral ties, of some great-uncle’s cousin’s child from that neighbouring village. But no one invited him for tea. No one mentioned him at the dinner table as anything more than “the new man in the office.” Despite the murmurs, he remained a stranger- neither embraced nor excluded-...
4 min read
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