Where I Grew Up....

In “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy, the father guides his son through his childhood home. As they walk around the house, the father recalls some memories from when he was young. McCarthy decribes the father's journey through the house and recollections: “They walked through the dining-room where the firebrick in the hearth was as yellow as the day it was laid because his mother could not bear to see it blackened.” (McCarthy, 26) Such memories made me think about my house when I used to live in the U.S. I began wondering what would I see and remember if it was me who was passing through the house ruins. This is what came to mind:

Soon enough, I was standing in front of the old blue, now grey, door frame. I made my way through the ashes lingering on the marble floor. The kitchen lightbulb was no longer there and the refrigerator was open and empty inside. The living room in front remained the same, only darker. The window shields stopped the wind from entering and impregnating the house. I turned around and followed the path I used to take years ago. It lead me to my old bedroom. The yellow walls had black stains all over, accompanied by insect holes. There was a tangling of spider webs where my bed used to be. A mixture of dirty cloths and ashes was piled up in the corner previously occupied by my sisters bed. The most notorious change was the smell. That warm, spicy yet sweet home smell was replaced with cold post-mortem essence. I heard a noise coming from outside the window. Slowly, I approached the dirty window shield and noticed the dying pine trees falling one by one. It was time to leave.