“This used to be home.” She said as she pressed her hand on the dusty window. Her handprint wasn’t as small anymore as on the living room wall.
It was the first time in years she was visiting this place, she could remember it all like it was yesterday.
For the first time he had nothing to say to her, as she was already taking a walk down memory lane. She spoke about all the things she did in the place she used to call home. Words rolled down her tongue as if they had a mind of their own.
“This door right here, Mum used to mark our height with a kitchen knife. I never grew taller than my brother. The kitchen counter is where I ate breakfast for 15 years. And the lillies in the garden, dad helped me plant them. I used to sit under the staircase and read Harry Potter when it rained”.
“It all seems like all these years didn’t happen.” She said, to herself.
“Life goes on and you don’t know how much you’re missing something until you stop and notice how far you’ve come. It’s been 10 years since we left this place and now; in my new home, there’s no markings of my height on the door, or Lillies in the garden or even a staircase where I can hide and read my novels. It’s not bad, I’ve grown up and things aren’t the same anymore. Now I have breakfast on the dining table, and there’s no garden but a small gallery full of roses. I’ve a library instead of staircases and it all fits well with me now. But, when I look back, I see this and this…..used to be home.”
– Prajakta Dengale