11 long years, it’s been since I left the home of my childhood. The address still etched in my mind, the memories still vivid. I can still run through those rooms in my mind. Each corner, each shelf, each photograph, so clear. The noise of the incessant rain hitting the roof, the comfort of the winter sun in the front porch, the furry touch of our pet, summer evenings spent star gazing with my dad on his easy chair, the smell of the ripe oranges in the winter afternoons, still fresh in my mind. I wonder how long it’s been and yet I still remember... The mind, in its strangest of capabilities has a way to preserve memories close to the heart.
Home is where the family is, I always told myself, never believing it though. The brick-concrete pile up too, is part of the memories. And I left mine over a decade back, never to see it again. Since then, had 5 addresses to call my home, but never connected. It gives a sense of comfort to see places that you grew up seeing, meet people, you grew up talking to.
Life is about a constant change. Old give way to the new. Old experiences make way for new escapades. But somewhere, in some teeny weeny corner of the mind, you keep pilling up those memories...
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