Memories of Home

Memories of My Old Home

I remember. I remember the delicate song the birds used to chirp.  I remember the way the bells used to ring through the streets. I remember the laughter of children and the sound of their feet running after school. I remember the baker’s sweet face and the desserts he gave us for free. I remember the kids jumping into the lake, swinging on the rope tied to the old oak tree. I remember the quaint cobbled streets and the brightly painted, small townhouses. I remember playing hopscotch with the other kids, trying not to lose my balance. I remember racing from one part of town to another. I remember everything and I remember everyone. 

Once, flower pots lined the roads, and the village woman competed to see who could grow the best lilies. They spent all evening watering and tending to the plants. The lake was crystal blue and you could see all the bright orange and red fishes darting around the children’s feet. The aroma of the baker’s pastries and sweets wafted into the homes, filling the entire town with the smell of freshly baked bread. The shoemaker smiled and nodded at everyone who walked by, their shoes shiny enough to see a reflection of the light blue sky with puffy clouds. A neighbor’s house was our house as well, even if we had no relation. The children were free to run as we wished, it was common for all the children of the town to gather in someone’s backyard, playing cards or simply chasing each other. Past the lake, into the distance, miles of green fields stretched, where the farmers would harvest their crops every spring. 

Now, it looks like a disaster zone. I walk through the old cobbled streets where moss grows in abundance, reminiscing the days of my childhood. I stop by the dilapidated baker’s shop, wishing for the smells of the raspberry-filled buns and the coconut candies with swirls of chocolates inside. But when I sniff the air, I wrinkle my nose in distaste at the smell of mold and dead rats. I walk from house to house, mourning the sagging roofs and crumbling walls. Everyone is gone, as we had left years ago in search of better jobs to support our families. There is not a soul to keep me company. I walk down to the crystal-blue lake, only to realize it was not clear anymore. The lake had turned brown, a murky body of water, and who knows what lay under the surface. In the middle of the lake, an old frayed rope with a tire seat attached to it floated on the surface. And our tree! our beautiful oak tree whose branches had stretched up to the heavens and gave us joy was no longer here. A sad, lonely stump stood in its place. And across the river, in the distance, the fields were overgrown with weeds. The little remaining plants were hunched over as they slowly decayed in silence. Behind them loomed enormous cities—the buildings reaching toward the clouds. The air was full of gray smoke curling into spirals. And instead of the soothing song of birds, there was a distant cacophony of beeping horns and rumbling traffic. Sometimes in the city, I see a childhood friend, but with their blank stares and worried looks, there is no recognition between us. Instead, they turn away and hurry to a taxi parked by the cramped roa–

Ring, Ring! Ring, Ring!

I yank my phone out of my pocket. It’s an unknown number. “Hello?” I ask, wondering if it’s from the new company I interviewed at.

Hello, we would like to talk to you about your car’s extended warranty.

I hang up. Stupid spam callers. I look at my reflection on the phone. I no longer have my rosy cheeks or bright smile. Instead tired wrinkles are etched into my face and something lifeless dwells in my eyes. My dark brown hair, which would once have been fluttering in the wind, is now tucked into a ponytail. I tuck the several gray strands behind my ears and shove my phone into my pocket.

I wish I could go back, things were much simpler back then. There were no telemarketers trying to sell me their products or haggling for prices with taxis. I always felt safe in my town, surrounded by family and friends. Now, there’s constantly a news story about murder, or famine, or another war. I remember the adults laughing and talking while working. Now, I am constantly working. I wake up at 7:30, just enough time to get ready and walk the 27 long minutes to a modern gray building with shiny windows set every few feet apart. I work from 9 to 5, a boring office job with signs that instruct us to work quietly posted at every corner. Then, I work at a restaurant until 10:00, serving tables and counting up tips. Barely minimum wage, but it’s how I make enough money for myself. Some days, I even have enough to catch a taxi back home. With gas prices rising, taxis are quickly becoming more expensive. I shouldn’t be complaining, I have it better than others, at least I live under a roof and can afford 3 meals a day. But there was a time when I didn’t have to worry about this. My biggest worries were being caught in hide-and-seek or stealing a few coins from our parents to buy delicious pastries. I was young and carefree but as time grows so do responsibilities.

The past and present were two opposite worlds. And I was trapped in the past. The stark contrast between the old and the new hit me like a bullet train. And to survive, I had to move on. I walked towards the big city, with the polluted air and the crowded streets. And tomorrow, as usual, my alarm clock will ring at 7:30, prompting me to get ready for another long job interview.