We all have a memory that we return to. A certain time and place in our lives defined by a date or a day or a time. The middle of some year, or the June of ’86 or the summer when he passed or that time the house was extended. A specific time that we recall when we remember something significant.
We remember how the air felt that day, the way it was hot and stuffy in the room and the way the sun came in in dusty slants and sat in patches on the crumpled sheets. We remember the murmur of voices. The chink of teacups on a tray. The buzz of insects outside. The smell of dead flowers. We live in this memory over and over, we run our hands over the details again and again, searching for what we missed the last time – sometimes desperately, sometimes languidly, sometimes in the empty way one returns to something out of a habit that makes no sense.
We sit in our memories like squatters.
Flitting through the inconsistent corridors of detailed rooms and vague doorways that keep shifting. We run our fingers over balustrades and sit in the same spot and stare at the same holes in the walls where we can’t remember what is missing. Or, where we remember too much what is missing. We live two lives at the same time; one in the present and one in the past.
This is a story about memory. (And the way we live two lives).
And about a house. (And the way it hold memories).
And about a girl. (And the way she grows up).
For all stories are eventually about love.