A house? A home? So many memories. Marks on the wall as children grew. Graves in the garden of dearly loved pets. Digging and finding soldiers; spoons smuggled outside to dig with by naughty kids. The longest time I’ve ever spent in any home. As a child a year in one place was a long time.
But it’s a frustrating place. Faults seem to jump out. This needs painting. That needs holes filled in. Hardly seems possible so many of us lived here. Where did we all fit? I suppose they were all smaller then. Now they are all taller than me! Looking around many memories play at once. A small son too frightened to go upstairs alone. Friends who came there. A son who had a fight with his brother. The late night phone calls.
Can it really mean that much? It’s just four walls.
My son comes to visit. “Sorry love its such a mess," I say.
“Don’t worry its home," he replies.
I realise to him its more than four walls. It’s a comforting place. He wants it to stay the same. Just being here makes him feel safe. Puzzling! …It annoys the heck out of me!
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