Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader – not the fact that it is raining,
but the feeling of being rained upon.
E. L. Doctorow
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental. or is it?
The static sound of the needle on the record’s grooves is unexpected and familiar. Music fills the house as it always did in my childhood. It grabs my heart and takes me back to this part of my life buried deep within. Tears flow on my cheeks, my throat aches, and I can barely breathe. I’m eight years old once more. Only this time, in a middle-aged woman’s body. This unexpected truth finally hits; I miss my parents.
Driving along the winding road, I’d dare anyone to locate the well-hidden house unless they’ve been there before. Finding my childhood home feels like the hunt for Pandora’s box. It is my choice; no one forced me to come back after both my parents died. Years of neglect allowed the overgrown vegetation to engulf it in a green blanket. Driving up the short alley, I see it in all its decrepit state. I come here to embrace the solitude of this forgotten house, to let it envelop me so I can learn all its secrets and maybe my family’s secrets as well.
Forgotten memories flood back up. The old house’s walls witnessed much violence, physical and emotional. Years ago, as a sign of silent protest, the faded old tapestry started un-gluing itself on some corners. Harsh childhood memories bring me further down this frightful past. My mind screams: Know the pain, let it go and do this over and over. Closing my eyes allows me to see it all again.
Mother’s nickname for me was: “Mater Dolorosa.” Latin for someone carrying all the pain of the world on her shoulders. It is how I feel right now.
The house keeps creaking the way it always did. Regardless of how much pain I felt there, sometimes there was also love. The misguided kind, the one that reprimands too harshly, strikes too often, and forgets to console. Yet, children are resilient. Now an adult, I want to make peace with the past. I wish to become an observer. I want to try and better understand the circumstances of my traumatic childhood.
Putting my thoughts into action, I am ready to go and visit the attic. A forbidden place, I have always been curious about as a younger child. Looking around, I see the low angled beams and to the left two forgotten suitcases, nestled in the far corner. The attic smells like a second-hand bookstore; Dust and forgotten knowledge well blended, with a light hint of old vanilla. I wonder why when we were children, we were never allowed in this magical place. I can imagine myself spending hours tucked in under the roof beams, reading or writing the way I loved to, as a young girl.
Crawling in, I hesitate a bit before looking into the suitcases. The first one I open filled with old baby clothes, neatly folded as if waiting to be given away or, so it seems. The second one is empty save for a red and white dishtowel. I am about to put it together in the other suitcase when I realize there is what seems like a journal inside. My heart beats faster as I carefully unwrap it. My mouth gapes open as if I am about to open a forgotten time capsule.
“Who has written in there?”
This one hits close to home, and I hope you’ll like. I am open to feedback …
[…] can read the first part here. This is a work in progress, far from being […]
LikeLike
[…] is story time after all, here is my first instalment. I am curious what do you do when you are not […]
LikeLike
I remember this piece of writing
LikeLiked by 1 person
I keep tweaking it and I know it will be part of the book…Now when this happens is another story all together 😉
LikeLike
Wonderful! I can only imagine the possibilities of being able to go into your childhood home as an adult and the memories that would dwell there.
LikeLiked by 1 person
If the walls could talk, Susan
LikeLike
Such a nice story. Keep it coming 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
thank you Deepika I will 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
I will look forward to your stories Anyes 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ohh that is so sweet ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
I like it a lot! I hope there’s more.
Alison
LikeLiked by 1 person
It’s a work in progress, yes same time next week 😉
LikeLiked by 1 person
Such a beautifully honest piece! It definitely evoked emotions in me and I want to read more. Thank you for sharing! 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
That is so kind of you Lotusgirl80, I am working on this ven if I feels quite vulnerable sharing it. Thank you 🙂
LikeLike
Oh, I can so relate…writing is so personal. You’re sharing a piece of yourself through your words. Thank you for trusting this space and putting yourself out there — you inspire me to write more from the heart 💕
LikeLiked by 1 person
It feels as comfortable as having your insides torn by a chain saw…Nothing to it 😉
I am still working on myself and the story I shared made me feel so vulnerable
LikeLike
Great analogy…I can relate. I am definitely a work in progress too. You are so brave and I’m amazed by your courage to share. ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
Would love more of this interesting story…most of my best poetry sprung from my childhood
memories where innocence was lost in a whirlwind of harshness.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ohhh Diane, I love that sentence “where innocence was lost…” It is a painful story yet it looks like I’m ready to share it now. Thank you 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
There is pain (remembered and present. There is grief. And there is a snippet of hope, hope for answers. Which is a LOT to pack into such a short piece. Well done.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for this, thank you so much ❤
LikeLike
Loved it! And now I want more!😊
LikeLiked by 1 person
My pleasure Dinah thank you for the cheering ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person