My home, you could say, is
broken.
The sense of belonging is
still there, as it should be in most homes, but it’s been disturbed by the many
sad memories that have attached themselves to the walls of my home.
From the outside, it’s
almost a dream home, large and tall, standing proudly beside the many small
homes in my lane. But open the door and you’re in for a very different image.
The faded paintings that hang from the tattered walls that haven’t been admired
in years.
The carpet that’s been
eaten away by years of hoovering and walking. The stairs that creak when you run
up them.
Then there are the photographs, old and dusty, bringing back memories
of when life was once happy. Most importantly my dad's face stands out, the only
piece of him left here. He still seems to be here. When you open the door of
his old bedroom, a million memories hit you smack in the face. The tears that
were wept here, the blood spilt, the voices raised as they argued and me and my
brother hid under our duvet covers, like baby mice snuggled up trying to keep
away from the cold air.
The many things that turn
a house from just a building to a special place where you can hide, be safe and
where you grew up.
My house has the things
that make a house a home - the photographs, the ornaments that aren’t just there
for show, but were collected lovingly from every country my mum and dad
visited.
A home cannot ever lose
its memories. Moving house is one experience I have never had, but it must be
very sad. Because you are not losing just some walls, doors and ceilings, but
your address, your memories, your neighbours. The place where you realised who
you were, cried over the first crack in your heart, laughed with your friends,
had your first masterpiece idea of becoming famous. These experiences cannot be
replaced.
My home has a sense of
fear in the air. After being broken into, stolen from and windows smashed you
are waiting for the next tragic event to occur.
Sometimes I just want to
get away from my home. The spare room that’s been filled up with rubbish, and
the odd toy from our childhood. The old heavy cupboard that holds a million
more memories, our birth certificates, my first letter to the tooth fairy, old
birthday and Christmas cards, mum and dad’s divorce papers.
If a stranger was to come
across these pieces of paper, he’d throw them away, unaware of the pain or
happiness they’ve caused, the deep meaning they have.
The spare room is the
worst room of the house - because of the junk that’s there; it clogs up your
mind, you lose things in there, it’s a jungle of memories. Memories and rubbish
mixed together, trying to hide the fact that my dad’s not there any longer.
Our broken home, where we
argue cry and hug. The dusty unclean surfaces and the bare eaten away carpets.
If it’s not my worst place in the world it’s also my favourite.
The smell of homemade
food, wafting up the stairs, the cards that make you smile when you read them,
my bedroom filled with pieces of me all, all mine.
The lounge - cosy and
comfortable. All the things that make homes what they are can be found in my
home, the memories, pictures and items.
In a way, I’m glad my home
is no showroom to a family that have moved so much they don’t belong anywhere,
who can’t remember what address they were at when their eldest daughter lost
her first tooth, their son passed his exams.
The house is small and
well kept, organised with no dust or fluff anywhere. Sometimes I long for this
home, not a big grand dream home with a Jacuzzi and swimming pool, but an ordinary
home where each room is filled with the right amount of furniture, the computer
doesn’t break, there aren’t books piled on every free surface area. But then I
think of my home, with a never ending list of chores and something always not
working, an item always lost in the rubble. But it’s still my home, my road,
familiar and friendly, it may be dusty, old and have a billion sad memories
clinging to it, but it is, after all, my home.
