“What are the earliest memories of the place you lived in as a child? Describe your house. What did it look like? How did it smell? What did it sound like? Was it quiet like a library, or full of the noise of life? Tell us all about it, in as much detail as you can recall.
Photographers, artists, poets: show us HOME.”
Well, I’m still not sure I have enough to talk about my house, but I couldn’t make up my mind what to write today so far. So I’m going to give it a try anyway.
I’m still living in the same house I grew up in. In my earliest memories, it looked bigger and seemed to have more space.
When it was built, my father must have planted trees in the garden without a decent plan. So, when I was small, our garden was like a jungle blocking sun light and without much space, so he had to cut down some trees and replant others.
It’s kind of funny that in my dreams, my room is always well-organized and has more space and shelves full of books I wouldn’t afford in my real life or I thought I lost in the past.