Flashfic: Return to a Childhood Home
Type: 1st person narrative
Words: 486
Date: March 12th, 2005
Notes: Had to do this for a school assessment. "Return to a Childhood Home" was the topic. 10 out of 10.
Licensed under Creative Commons.
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Coming home to your past is like realising it never happened.
As I stepped through the doorway and peered into the dusty depths of my childhood home, I recalled how often I used to come tearing through this hallway, scattering shoes and books and bags. How I’d race to the kitchen to grab a drink, pausing only to turn on the television before settling down for an afternoon of relaxation. Sometimes I’d simply lay on the couch for hours in the fading sunlight, watching cartoon figures jump and fight and sing. Other times I’d grow bored and journey outside to the overgrown wilderness that was loosely confined on three sides by crumbling wooden fences.
I stood in that backyard – now maintained and proper and all things it wasn’t – and stared. Stared at the place where the cubbyhouse used to stand; now a small garden, rows of carrots and tomatoes sunning happily in their earthy homes. Stared at the pavement where I learned how to ride a bicycle; where I fell and where I got back up to try again and again until I could ride without hands nor third wheels, but pure balance and skill (which was mostly stubborn determination). It was now bordered by spring blossoms, which swayed softly in the afternoon breeze, whispering to one another like 8-year-olds with a secret.
This lack of familiarity was disturbing. It made me nostalgic and a little angry. Angry that things had changed and they would never return back to how they were. Nostalgic because when I was a child everything seemed brighter, more fun, exciting and dangerous. When you’re an adult it’s all work and stress and responsibilities. Freedom and independence do that to you.
I walked back inside and made my way to my old bedroom. I paused before I reached the doorway, hesitant to enter. Curiosity outweighed unfounded reluctance, and I peered inside. Blank walls and sharp angles stared back at me expectantly. The room had been redecorated with a white theme; it was as if you were trapped in a snowstorm. It was stripped of personality. Taking a quick inventory of the objects in the room, it looked like random belongings had been thrown together to create space in other rooms: a storage area.
Was this what happened when you grew up? Your most treasured of havens was reduced to a mere collection of dust and unwanted material possessions? If so, the world is a sad place.
I left the room, the house, the memories. I didn’t stop when the real estate agent called out to me asking if I wished to purchase the house, reduced at cost? I didn’t stop until I got to my car. Then I paused, one hand on the door, looking back to the place where I had grown up: where I’d laughed, cried, danced, loved. Where my life began. Where I no longer belonged.
I drove away.
Words: 486
Date: March 12th, 2005
Notes: Had to do this for a school assessment. "Return to a Childhood Home" was the topic. 10 out of 10.
Licensed under Creative Commons.
--
Coming home to your past is like realising it never happened.
As I stepped through the doorway and peered into the dusty depths of my childhood home, I recalled how often I used to come tearing through this hallway, scattering shoes and books and bags. How I’d race to the kitchen to grab a drink, pausing only to turn on the television before settling down for an afternoon of relaxation. Sometimes I’d simply lay on the couch for hours in the fading sunlight, watching cartoon figures jump and fight and sing. Other times I’d grow bored and journey outside to the overgrown wilderness that was loosely confined on three sides by crumbling wooden fences.
I stood in that backyard – now maintained and proper and all things it wasn’t – and stared. Stared at the place where the cubbyhouse used to stand; now a small garden, rows of carrots and tomatoes sunning happily in their earthy homes. Stared at the pavement where I learned how to ride a bicycle; where I fell and where I got back up to try again and again until I could ride without hands nor third wheels, but pure balance and skill (which was mostly stubborn determination). It was now bordered by spring blossoms, which swayed softly in the afternoon breeze, whispering to one another like 8-year-olds with a secret.
This lack of familiarity was disturbing. It made me nostalgic and a little angry. Angry that things had changed and they would never return back to how they were. Nostalgic because when I was a child everything seemed brighter, more fun, exciting and dangerous. When you’re an adult it’s all work and stress and responsibilities. Freedom and independence do that to you.
I walked back inside and made my way to my old bedroom. I paused before I reached the doorway, hesitant to enter. Curiosity outweighed unfounded reluctance, and I peered inside. Blank walls and sharp angles stared back at me expectantly. The room had been redecorated with a white theme; it was as if you were trapped in a snowstorm. It was stripped of personality. Taking a quick inventory of the objects in the room, it looked like random belongings had been thrown together to create space in other rooms: a storage area.
Was this what happened when you grew up? Your most treasured of havens was reduced to a mere collection of dust and unwanted material possessions? If so, the world is a sad place.
I left the room, the house, the memories. I didn’t stop when the real estate agent called out to me asking if I wished to purchase the house, reduced at cost? I didn’t stop until I got to my car. Then I paused, one hand on the door, looking back to the place where I had grown up: where I’d laughed, cried, danced, loved. Where my life began. Where I no longer belonged.
I drove away.