And then I stood for the last time in that room.
The key was in my hand. I held my ground,
and listened to the quiet that was like a sound,
and saw how the long sun of winter afternoon
fell slantwise on the floorboards, making bloom
the grain in the blond wood. (All that they owned
was once contained here.) At the window moaned
a splinter of wind. I would be going soon.
“On closing the apartment of my grandparents of blessed memory”- Robyn Sarah
What makes a home
Wooden walls and thresholds,
Do, more than you credit them,
So do, Slamming doors,
In sounds of a particular timbre.
So does the way voice resonates,
Should you yell across the house.
The clanging of footsteps,
On the wooden staircase,
Draped with a particular carpet,
That children ran into and stumbled.
The feel of curtains that swish around you,
The bumping into susceptible walls.
The memories of TV serials and cricket matches,
The atmosphere of the room when it is all quite.
The smell of fried coconut dishes,
Splatters of mustard seeds.
The way the lines hang when wet with clothes,
The drip of water on the cement floor.
The sound of rain on the rooftop,
The trickle, that flows on the window pane.
The memories of the many people, who lived before,
In this house, of stone bricks and wooden gate.
My parents have moved out of their home of 18 years. While I stayed with them only for 4 years, it was their longest stay in one house.
Through childhood, changing schools, neighbourhoods, and houses was common. Having been in 7 schools in 13 years was not a joke.
Something is different this time though, and I know that a part of me will remain in this house.
It may be refurbished, and painted, it will smell and feel different.
There will be new people, new flavours and voices.
A different style of decoration.
But I believe that if I ever enter the house again, there will be familiarity, a part of the house will call me back, like an old friend. The day they demolish it, I will cry, because that which was constant will be no more.
I will have a new home to go “home to”, But it will take time to become “home”.
Picture credit: http://artcentre.fi, My home, 2010 – Anatoli Todorov, 7v, Bulgaria