Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Day 268: Home.

The downstairs kitchen had cupboards filled with mom’s old outfits from the 60’s and 70’s. I would play dress-up for hours on end with anybody that came down to my lair.
There was one renegade pink flowery tile, accidentally placed backwards in the washroom. And when I sat in the tub, I would press on the tile and imagine it opened a secret passage.
The carpet in the “nice” living room had a faded spot on the rug in front of the stereo from where I sat and listened to music for as long as my sore butt would allow.
My bedroom is where I taught myself guitar basics and sang a song with it for the very first time.
And when I missed curfew, I knew exactly where the floor creaked past my parent’s bedroom.
The living room in the basement witnessed many girly sleepovers, parties, world cup viewings, scary movie watching, and various make-out sessions with boyfriends.
But every room had its own story.
Just as every house does.
It was the house I was born in.
It was the house I grew up in.
It was the hardest house to leave.
And it’s a far cry from what it used to be.
Ever since we moved away, other hands let it fall apart.
And after that someone else transformed it into a home daycare.
I have three uncles still living on that street.
And every time I visit, I can’t bear to look at my old house.
I actually look away, it’s so silly. 
But as many times as I’ve moved (five times and counting) when I dream of home, that’s the place I am transported to.
Every single time.
I wonder if that will ever change?

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