Monday, February 01, 2010
This house. It used to fill with noise. Now it is mostly quiet. Human denizens have been replaced with mewing, barking creatures. This house of my youth, my childhood. Ghostly quiet, a mute witness to nigh three decades of history. Underneath the gray of neglect, I see the white walls. They used to echo laughter, idle talk, forceful anger. I care not to have repairs made. The peeling paint, the dripping ceiling, the rot in the wood are all in mute understanding, this house will soon lay to rest. And with it shall be buried lives fully lived. I have not regrets. Soon I shall leave, far longer than before. I am fine with the possibility of never coming back for good. With me I take memories of good and bad. My parents’ house, the shrine to their dreams fulfilled. They were never mine. The mango tree blooms for the nth time, its fruits even now falling useless on the roof, on the ground. I remember when it was planted first. I was five. It is beautiful in shadowlight.