My Grandma’s house

It’s been a long time since I walked down this road. A really, really long time. The last time I was here 30 years ago, there were houses that lined the street. Houses owned by families I knew. Now there are monstrous buildings with families who barely know each other. I sigh as I stand on the street searching though I know it is futile. Searching for that one special house that was my haven as a child; my Grandma’s house.

As I stand before the tall impersonal building that has replaced it, I am pulled back into a world of laughter and stories listened to on Grandma’s lap. I can still taste the toffee she used to make for us, the aroma tantalising us as she stirred it on the stove.

I can see myself climbing over the balcony on the first floor to sit on the tiles of the roof below. There was a little niche formed where the roof dipped towards the wall and I used to hide there for hours scribbling away my first poems and stories.

When I looked down, I could see the little garden at the back where my uncle lovingly planted all sorts of plants. I can see the hibiscus growing over the wall, the mogras dainty and white, the lime tree that refused to give any limes

Today as I stand here all I can see is concrete and windows with curtains pulled across. No trees, no red roofs, no known or beloved people. Just memories that I carry in my heart forever.


This post is part of the Monday Musings hosted by Corinne of Everyday Gyaan.





Conducts life skill courses for kids, teens and adults. Proprietor of 'The Know & Grow Learning Centre' Passionate about writing and helping people become the best they can be. Believes that education should geared towards learning and not studying.

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