The Picture

One of my mother's friends sent me a picture of the interior of the house where I spent the first several years of my life. It was a two storey house my mother had inherited from her evil old grandmother. The house burned when I was very young and I have missed it ever since then. I think about this house probably every day. Sometimes I'll design it in Sims and look at it. I usually have to demolish the plot, though, because it overwhelms me emotionally.

The same was true for seeing this picture. I downloaded it and stared at it for quite a long time. It was so neat to see all the stuff again. My mom didn't believe in blank walls, so the 12-foot ceilings had stuff all over them. Old photos, paintings, mirrors, whatever she thought would work. In some of her later houses, she put broken instruments on the walls. For many years, there was a French horn and a trumpet on the walls of where I lived.

There is so much that I didn't remember about the house. The doors were painted white, for one  thing. I remembered them being the same dark oak color as the stairwell and the fireplace mantle. Speaking of that mantle, it was no where near as large as I remembered it. Then again, I remembered it from the perspective of a child.

I often think about how different my life would have been if that house would have never burned. I think once it was gone, I really kind of lost part of my identity, a part that never quite recovered. I think that's why when I think about the house or now, seeing pictures of it, it pulls so hard at my heartstrings.