The House Where We Grew Up
<p>My parents sold the house last year.</p><p>It was not a large house. The paint was old, and one of the doors never closed properly. During the rainy season, water came through a corner of the roof.</p><p>Still, it was home.</p><p>Before the new owners moved in, I visited one last time.</p><p>The rooms looked smaller.</p><p>I stood in the kitchen and remembered my mother cooking while we argued about whose turn it was to wash the dishes. I went upstairs and found the marks on the wall where my brother and I had measured our height.</p><p>I was surprised they were still there.</p><p>In my old bedroom, there was nothing.</p><p>No bed. No books. No posters.</p><p>Just an empty room.</p><p>My father stood behind me.</p><p>“You remember this room being bigger?” he asked.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“It was always this size.”</p><p>I laughed.</p><p>We walked outside.</p><p>The garden looked different because the trees had grown. Or maybe I had forgotten how they looked.</p><p>Before leaving, I took a photograph of the front door.</p><p>Later, I looked at it and felt disappointed.</p><p>The photo showed a building.</p><p>It did not show the noise, the smells or the people.</p><p>Maybe homes cannot really be photographed.</p>
I expected the old house to feel as large and familiar as it did in memory, but the physical place had changed and so had I.