I walk to the door and hear Savage Garden faintly through the wood. I knock. Dad opens it, wearing his blue checkered apron, smelling of onions and cheese. The music is loud now, the boom box blaring from the kitchen. I love coming home, to this. The house is small and warm, not half the size of our home in the U.S. but equally comfortable. Our legos in the living room, and Magic Cards scattered on the floor. Beary on my pillow, a keyboard to play, Backstreet Boys and Shakira tapes to listen to, and my family to talk. Every comfort. Except it does feel a little different, because I feel different. It's all the same but different. Everything is.
2006.
The black cast-iron gate, the chipped white door - these are the same. But walking inside, I find my house's smell is absent. A sweeter, softer, unfamiliar smell greets me. This is not my house. It bears no semblance to my house. Nick's room, once full of light and Coca-Cola cans and stray clothes, has been converted into a storage space, jammed with boxes, shades drawn. My parents room is stale, void of the easy life it once held. Seeing my lively little house so changed makes me sad. Only one person lives here - she doesn't use it like we did. We sit down for a cup of mate in the kitchen to catch up on missed years, and as she spoons tablespoons of sugar into the gourd, the familiar gaudy blue pattern catches my eye. Our old plastic tablecloth, on which our boom box blaring Savage Garden used to sit, on which Dad chopped up countless onions and blocks of cheese, remains quietly in its place. Smiling, I reach for the outstretched gourd, one hand resting on my table.
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