A memory of my grandparents’ house

The mind is a thing that thinks more ahead than it looks back, thus I dreamed of phase three: when my grandparent’s house is filled with laughter again; the laughing and joy of other children. Playing, running up the stairs watching the traffic that meets in the middle of their corner. Rooms remodeled to suit their needs, painted, except for the attic that stays forever in darkness.

This is where I met them, the new ones, to assemble my last memories, trying to chase them from what used to be in possession of the most wonderful soul in our family.

A building doesn’t seem to care who sleeps in it. If the heat hadn’t made me brain dead and the blood loss heartless, the tragedy of the situation would have hit me harder. I would have shed more tears, instead I waited. I had a cup of tea and waited for the clocks in Germany to strike ten. Then I called my mother to talk about the cats.

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