Home by Grace Collins
Everything is still unbelievably the same, from the faded red bricks, to the white washed steps and even to the net curtains that hang in the window. The building feels stagnant, almost forgotten, as I make my way across the road. The front door no longer looms over me, the brass knocker now dull in the fading afternoon light, yet I still feel like an intruder.
I can hear children playing, seeking out the last few hours of the day before they are forced to abandon their games to the call of tea time. It is a sound that I instantly associate with my own childhood and it consumes me. Memories flood through my mind to the days spent playing tennis on the road and scraped knees as we climbed the oak tree at the bottom of the street. To the endless hours stretching ahead of us as we rode our bikes up Drumau mountain on hazy summer days, aching and breathless when we made it to the top. Always taking the view for granted as it had always been there for us, never once considering that we would one day miss it.
The door opens easily as I step inside, the light slicing through the dim hallway. The smell hits me first, washing powder with a hint of vanilla, another staple of my days here in this house. I automatically go towards the kitchen, lift the net curtain and open the window to let the air circulate and the room begins to breathe again.
The kitchen was always your favourite room, annotated cookbooks are stacked along the sideboard, full of scribbles of your own ideas, never content with what the expert had said. My fingers linger over them, an over whelming sense to pick them up and devour them, desperate to soak up any part of you that is left within these pages. But I don’t. I leave them to lie, waiting for your return. Absentmindedly, I flick the kettle on as I make my way through to the living room, with no real interest of actually making a cup of tea.
Photographs that have faded over the years from direct sunlight still hang on the walls. A collage of family portraits, Christmas Day celebrations, graduations and St David’s Day parades. We are all there, frozen in picture perfect moments, institutionalised on these wallpapered walls forever. We look happy, we look like a family, we look whole. I turn and sit on your armchair, the one closest to the fireplace as you always felt the chill in the room, even in the height of summer. There is a soft, worn blanket casually thrown over the arm of the chair and without realising what I am doing, I bury my nose into it, trying my hardest to summon your smell. But it is long gone.
I sink back into the chair, wiping the tears that have started to collect in the corners of my eyes and gaze out through the patio doors to your beloved garden. I can’t help but smile as my eyes rake over the straggle of yellowing plants and the homemade attempt of a wooden trellis tacked to the garden wall. I say this is your beloved garden with a fond smile and a warm laugh, as it is a well-known family joke. Try as you might, you have no green thumb - in fact you repel any living plant within a five mile radius. But that did not dampen your enthusiasm. In reality it spurred you forward; you were always coming back from the garden centre with a boot full of new plants, flowers and special soil to try out. So sure, that this time it would work and your garden would be transformed into an oasis of beautiful smelling flowers and lush greenery.
Opening the doors wide, I let the cool spring air in, imagining I could physically see it swirling into the room, diving into every nook and corner, filling the space. The blinds flit in the wind as I cling to the door frame, knuckles white as I focus all my strength into just staying upright. The air in my lungs seems to have left my body without really noticing and I struggle to find my centre. Forcing myself to calm and breathe at a more rational pace, I leave the living room for the solitude of the hallway.
Heaving my aching body against the wall, I let the tears flow this time. For I am in the home which you created. A home in which we all felt safe and loved. A home that would always be there for us whenever we decided to return to it. The house still stands yet you do not. We have all taken for granted that you would always be there, welcoming us in to the cosy living room, showering us with food and endless cups of tea and simply being there to give advice. Because sometimes, all we needed was to retreat to our former youthful selves where nothing affected us more than a silly argument with our friends, where we could lay our heads in your lap and let you soothe our foreheads until all the worries disappeared.
That has now been taken from us, and here in this home, I am reminded that everyone we have ever loved and cherished, revolved around you. Always you. And now, we will all have to find a way to continue living and loving without you. For while everything may look unbelievably the same in this small home, it is undeniably changed.
Written by Grace Collins
I work in HR and a part time MA student in English Literature. Avid reader and writes book reviews on Instagram @thecwtchbookclub when not walking the puppy.
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