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.

 

 

 

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