Friday, December 10, 2010

344. Home is where the hearth is

As Jill crested the rise, she felt an sadness engulf her. Tears stung her eyes. She could step no further.

She stood beneath the shade of the Camphor-Laurel tree from which her swing had dangled during her childhood. Down there, beyond the gate, was where the kelpie had her kennel.

And that chimney, all disrobed, with no house to call a home, was where they sat after dinner, Mum to the right, Dad to the left, the kids in the middle sprawled on the rug. Sat and listened to John Deece put another raft of contestants through the wringer. Sat and listened on a Sunday to Police Files, where they always got their man. Or to Bob and Dolly encourage people to take the money or pick a box.

So many memories, to cry tears over, and yet she had hated living here and could not wait to be gone.

1 comment:

Joan Elizabeth said...

Oh it must be sad to see a family home disappear ... all the sostalgia stuff P went on about in the beginning of the year. My parents home turned into a real estate agent ... the painted it bright yellow and black .. it's hideous but makes me chuckle.