.62
The best days of my life are the ones that I can’t really remember.
The memories are blurred and sketchy. I remember the bright warm light, and how it used to hit the walls. I remember the sofa, and its coarse rough texture, worn at the edges from years of handling. I remember the smell, indescribable but familiar; it’s the smell of home.
I remember snatches of conversations; I remember the lilt of your voice; I remember your soft laugh, echoing through the room; I remember your fingers, long and slender, wrapped around a wine glass. Your hair was long, brown and wavy; your eyes, rimmed with kohl, were dark brown and beautiful; your rose red lips were curled into a small smile.
I remember home and it hurts.
It hurts because, slowly but steadily, the memories are fading.
I can’t remember where the kitchen sink used to be. It’s little things, really, but the little things could turn into big things. I can’t remember the colour of the walls in the second bathroom.
And just when I think I’ve forgotten, I remember it all.
I remember the rusty red floor, and how the deep rich red would stain the soles of my feet if I forgot to wear slippers. I remember the thin blue curtains from when we first moved in, and then I remember the beautiful thick blue ones that replaced them; I spent afternoons curled up by the windows, with the linen of the curtains gently caressing my cheek. I remember the sunflower yellow of the kitchen wall, bright and cheerful, like the sun shining outside the window. I remember the furniture, all made from a dark wood; I remember the small chair in the kitchen, set out just for me, for when I had to hurry and eat breakfast on the mornings I had school. I remember the sweet fresh taste of pomegranate, unfamiliar and exotic, bursting across my taste buds. I remember the carton of milk I spilled, and how it splashed all over the dark red floor.
I remember, and that hurts even more.
When I think of home, I think of the house I lived in from the ages of four to ten. It wasn’t really a house, more of a very large penthouse. It wasn’t beautiful, and even though it wasn’t really ours, that’s what we made it. We made it a home.
When I think of home, my chest aches, because home will always be that house, and nothing will ever compare.
I don’t say “I’m home” anymore, because, well: I’m not.
The memories are blurred and sketchy. I remember the bright warm light, and how it used to hit the walls. I remember the sofa, and its coarse rough texture, worn at the edges from years of handling. I remember the smell, indescribable but familiar; it’s the smell of home.
I remember snatches of conversations; I remember the lilt of your voice; I remember your soft laugh, echoing through the room; I remember your fingers, long and slender, wrapped around a wine glass. Your hair was long, brown and wavy; your eyes, rimmed with kohl, were dark brown and beautiful; your rose red lips were curled into a small smile.
I remember home and it hurts.
It hurts because, slowly but steadily, the memories are fading.
I can’t remember where the kitchen sink used to be. It’s little things, really, but the little things could turn into big things. I can’t remember the colour of the walls in the second bathroom.
And just when I think I’ve forgotten, I remember it all.
I remember the rusty red floor, and how the deep rich red would stain the soles of my feet if I forgot to wear slippers. I remember the thin blue curtains from when we first moved in, and then I remember the beautiful thick blue ones that replaced them; I spent afternoons curled up by the windows, with the linen of the curtains gently caressing my cheek. I remember the sunflower yellow of the kitchen wall, bright and cheerful, like the sun shining outside the window. I remember the furniture, all made from a dark wood; I remember the small chair in the kitchen, set out just for me, for when I had to hurry and eat breakfast on the mornings I had school. I remember the sweet fresh taste of pomegranate, unfamiliar and exotic, bursting across my taste buds. I remember the carton of milk I spilled, and how it splashed all over the dark red floor.
I remember, and that hurts even more.
When I think of home, I think of the house I lived in from the ages of four to ten. It wasn’t really a house, more of a very large penthouse. It wasn’t beautiful, and even though it wasn’t really ours, that’s what we made it. We made it a home.
When I think of home, my chest aches, because home will always be that house, and nothing will ever compare.
I don’t say “I’m home” anymore, because, well: I’m not.