My Writing

Home. Maybe not mine, but one that I love. Memories are bounding out of these walls, almost as if they were once living people. I walk in and see my grandmother, always so full of life and warm. Serene and surreal. I almost start to cry, it has been so long. It smells like cinnamon here, a smell that should be associated with every and only grandmothers homes. The teapot sits pristinely on the new stove. Where is the old one? Despite, it looks happy, probably contemplating the change in this old house.

So many memories jump back into my nose, eyes and ears. They are almost tangible, as I can see the vividness of each one. The chair that I sit in is an old one, used thousands upon thousands of times. I still believe that it belongs to me because we were so intimate together. Hours of playing games at this table were spent. I learned what a sore lose was at this table, but also tasted victory. The woodwork within the table tells millions of tales. Nobody remembers all of them except for the wood, and its' memory is so perfect that even the most insignificant whisper can still be heard to the eager ear.

We are flawed, but only because lives were lived here. We are proud of our flaws, and I will not change them. Not here. To change those flaws would be suicide to that which we are capable of. This house was a mold for our flaws, and I am so proud. To have become so imperfect in a place so familiar. The taste of the air is musky, but again I would not change it, for I love the fault.