Sunday, July 10, 2011
The house is all packed up. I say house because everywhere I look I see plain white walls, glass windows and the cold, hard floor. The warm carpets and rugs are rolled up and covered with plastic sheets; the beautiful curtains are washed, ironed and neatly folded into piles and the colourful paintings that adorned the walls are covered in brown paper, tied with bits of string. The home - 'my' home, has been reduced to a stack of cardboard boxes strewn about the floor, with nothing to show for the four years of fun, warmth and love that nestled between its walls. It seems cold and distant, angry that I'm leaving it never to return, pleading me to not go. Or is it indifference? I wish I could talk to the walls, and I wish they'd talk back to me. Tell me I'll be missed or that I'll be welcomed back. Tell me that the plethora of memories that they witnessed would forever remain ensconced in the space I'd once called my own.