I remember a house that stood alone near the ruined town it was once a part of. It was not too close to the east, and not far from the south, beside the azure lake and up the pine forest trees. That house had once been a spectacle, adored like a show girl, with her snow lace curtains, cream-coloured counters, and stained glass panes that had scattered and poured wondrous hues of sunlight into the child bedrooms.
She had been the abode of generations, countless memories and moments, wrapping families in love and comfort within the burgundy couches and vast floors, the house herself a member of each one that came through. She had observed with her sullen wooden eyes, tracking the kids who ran about with their stuffed fluffy bunnies and plastic planes, doe eyes filled with a pure joy.
“Let’s play over here!”
She watched couples, as they cuddled at midnight and blanketed themselves in plush quilts, huddled to watch a movie with the smell of popcorn laced with caramel wafting through the air.
As each generation had gone by, she had seen, felt and heard numerous things, sensations. Until the door hinges creaked, the silver speckled with a rotting clementine orange. Her mahogany floorboards sighed wearily under the weight of tables, and paint began to corrode and peel. Until her walls were filled with moments till the brim, and wooden eyes heavy with an eternal tired content. Then, the last family had closed the front door permanently, leaving her to crumble with the rest of the desolate town, like a dying star.
Laughter had once bounced through the house, children’s chatter had skipped and twirled within her walls. A family’s love had once made this house home. And that had been a moment to cherish, to be grateful for. Now, she lay abandoned, frozen in time. Now, the laughter was only an echo.
Within the years, nature had reclaimed what was lost. Emerald vines cascaded down the spiral staircase, protruding veiny leaves and snaking around slowly the chandelier. Blooming ivory jasmine hung from the fractured lightbulbs, releasing a scent that replaced the familiar caramel. Miniature shrubs clung to sofas, branches poking the soft linen, and long thin grass had replaced the large fur carpet beneath the dented tv.
Melancholy melted the family’s love, seeping into the air like fresh paint. And day by day, as the golden sun rose and fell asleep, the house would replay her favourite cherished moments that she had in the past.
The good ones, where kids would run across the floors, playing simple games.
Bad ones, where parents would argue, eventually apologetic.
And she let each one go like a butterfly. Except for one.
When she was left alone.
Because maybe that was her peace.
Maybe to be happy isn’t to always have children laughing, or couples cuddling on warm couches.
For her, tranquility and the feeling of gratitude for all the memories she had, was her happiness.
And maybe, that was her favourite moment of all.
Vrisha Badlu – Year 11
