A car horn goes off. The churning of the engines of a three-wheel automobile passes by. The laughter and screams of a few kids running down the block, chasing after something only children can see. A walff of spice-scented cooking drifts by. A stray dog barks. Grandma calls for me to come down, and I am home.
Home, four letters that can encompass so many emotions, lives, memories, history.
These walls, these stone steps up to the church, these screen doors, these old concrete floors, all make up my home, my roots, the container of much of my childhood.
More than 30 years my family has lived in this three-floored house built by my grandfather. More than 30 years have we served the church erected by German missionaries, right behind this house. There’s a room on the third floor that contains an invaluable collection of books, magazines and newspapers that were started more than 30 years ago.
Thirty years of history, these walls have protected and time has wasted. But without the presence of family, my dear slow-moving grandparents, this house would be void of the warmth that comes with “home”. So what are these 30 years worth? One day, this house will be emptied of constant human life. It will come down, and 30 years of human life will be reduced to rubble.
The cracks on the concrete will fade away into oblivion, the stains on the curtains, the creaking of its beds, the echoes of voices up and down these stairs, they will all be released into a black hole of forgotten, unimportant memories. But in those books, in those pictures, in the memories of generations after, this “home” will live on.