MEMORIES OF MY HOME

Anonymous

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 women competed to see who could grow the best lilies. 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. 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.