If these walls could speak
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My mother just sold my childhood home. Her and her husband moved out yesterday. It sold quickly, within days of being on the market, to one of the first families that looked at it. I haven't lived there for just shy of two years, but it's always been home. I was about seventeen months old when I moved there. I don't remember the house my parents lived in when I was born, but I know broadly where it is. The house I grew up in is the one I've always known as home. I was thirty-one when I left. That's a long time. It was home for all of those years and beyond. It was that kind of place. Until now.
I probably know that house better than anyone. My mum may have had an extra couple of years there, but she's only ever seen it through the eyes of an adult. Sure she's cleaned it more thoroughly than anyone else, and she's decorated every room many times, but she's never explored it the way a child can. She's never looked at it through curious eyes, hungry to learn its many secrets. This was my environment, my territory, my castle, my adventure. For the longest time, it was the only one I knew, and I made sure I knew it well.
I have so many memories in that place. I could describe every wall, every ceiling, every floor, every surface. I could tell you some anecdote about any place you could see to point at. They might not be the sort of memories that cause memoirs to fly off the shelves in book shops, but they're mine. They all contributed to my life in some way, great or small. It takes people to make a house into a home. But I also think the home makes something of the people too. That one made me.
It's weird to think of someone else living there. It's not my home anymore. It's theirs. I can't go there. I won't see it again the way I've been able to for so many years. I have no reason to go along that street anymore, tucked away from the main roads as it is. If I do, I'll only ever see that house from the outside. I won't see the rooms I grew up in. I won't see my quiet spaces, my hiding places, my safe places. I'm almost jealous of the people that will live there now. Not in a malicious way. I hope they make as many happy memories there as I did. Apparently they're a young family with a small child. It's the child I'm jealous of. He or she will get to grow up in that house. I was lucky enough to do that once. Now it's someone else's turn.
Good bye, house. Thanks for keeping the rain off my childhood and giving the kid who didn't know where he belonged a place to be. I hope they'll look after you the way I did. Be kind to the next child to grow within your walls, won't you? I already know they'll be grateful. I'll miss you, old friend. I'll never forget. Thank you.