Holidays are family, family is home and home will ever be that house!
I wasn’t born in it, but I spent my first year there, an abandoned puppy absorbing the world for the first time. This house is my home, my basic home, the one I looked for in all houses and flats I’ve ever lived in.
I can still hear the sounds, the business of the kitchen, the laughter of my cousins, running feet around the house, even the shouts of my kids playing ball.
I could write a 1000 page encyclopedia about that house – I know it’s heart. The small dark pantry in the kitchen, the green round table where many secrets were revealed by my grandma, under the spell of grinded coffee smell. The amazing living room at Friday nights entertaining, the famous sofa, the big balcony where boiling summer dinners took place, grandma swinging her fan for air. The enormous bed-rooms, the plate of sweets waiting by our beds when we slept over, the broom closet in the hall that contained many of us together easily.
I remember the endless back stairs going down to the yard, all the way from the second floor, watching over the huge garden…, the heat of noon, the taste of the loquat fruits, the quiet coolness under the grapefruit tree, the sun light leaking through the leaves, and the world was gone. It was just us, in a secure hiding place, a round of giggling faces… sh….sh…