It is amazing how the simple things can mean the most to children. My childhood glimmers with memories of bubble wrap, playing under the sprinklers, visits to grandmothers house and a solitary teddy bear. In the days before iPods, before computers were a necessity, there existed a world where every day was just another day in paradise and the aim was to explore as much as possible as quickly as possible. I, along with my twin sister and older brother lived in this world of imagination as children. To us, our house represented the whole world. I remember the day we had to say farewell to it.
I stand in the garden. Our backyard was the place of many of our adventures. It was a child’s dream. In those days our garden was green with life and smelled of summer all year long. A brick path weaved through the luscious grass in a snake like fashion, and garden beds strategically placed around the edges of the path dotted the scene like blotches of colour in an impressionists painting. Images flash from the depths of my mind. To the left was where we had discovered the family of ducks that decided to settle into our swimming pool. Over on the concrete was where the three of us had formed a band with tennis racket guitars. To the right was where I had lost my tooth amongst the omniscient red bricks of the driveway. Memories of lessons learned come forth. At the end of the path stands a tree. Short in stature but potent in the fruit that it bears. Mangos. When I was about nine my brother mashed the mangos from the tree, mixed them with water and fed it to me. A bitterness surpassing that of the unripe mangos rises inside me. It’s not fair, how can I be forced to leave this garden that taught me so much?
I step into the house through the backdoor. The wood has split in places, and flakes of white paint flutter to the ground with the sudden jolting of the door. Inside the house