My Home, My Soul… — a short story
He could feel the ground moving under his feet faster and faster as he was getting closer to that poor, old-looking house. It was like not only was he running, but the neighborhood itself was trying to get closer to him, too. Feeling the calm wind slowly finding its way about his face was like a soft kiss on his cheeks, just as he could feel the love for this place in his heart. Looking around, it was just like a year before; it was almost like he had traveled back in time to that gloomy day he had left there.
It was all like a dream for him. Getting back to the house which had all his memories inside. He could see the 7-year-old version of himself running around the yard, trying to catch the dog who just wanted to have a calm sleep. He could see himself sneaking over the short walls on the east side of the yard, back in from the late-night party of his friend. Of course, he didn’t want to go there because he knew he would be late, but in the end, he wanted his friends to know him as a cool guy, so he did it. He stayed late that night, and that ended up in a broken hand for him, just around that little fig tree of theirs.
He could feel the first time he kissed a girl, as it was his high school girlfriend, Maria, right on that old and broken wooden bench made of apple wood, over the right side of the yard, where there used to be another berry tree, giving them comfort from the burning sun. He turned to that small path in the corner of the house, the one that was designed with grape tree branches to look good, at least from his mother’s perspective. That road would end up at the beach with those warm blue waves, the most beautiful scene he could ever imagine in his mind’s eye. It was too soon to go to the beach however, he had to help his parents to move the furniture.
He asked his mom if he could help, and his mother gave him two bags with such soft handles that he wanted to hold them forever! He took the bags and started his way through the house entrance. There were some minor changes; for example, he couldn’t find the old bell that his grandpa installed there. He used to lift him from the ground and hold him in his arms as a child so he could ring the bell.
Walking into the house, the changes were starting to ramp up as he could see new colors on the walls and small holes left from the paintings that he guessed the last resident hung. Although he didn’t like those changes and he didn’t want to remember the year he passed away from this house, he couldn’t control himself being so happy about moving back to their old house. The one that he could remember and where he could see himself by looking at every corner of it. I guess Primal Landscapes are parts of who we are.
Soheil Erfani Tabar © 2023. All rights reserved.
