Day Eleven: Size Matters (In Sentences)
Today’s Prompt: Where did you live when you were 12 years old?
Many years have passed since my twelfth birthday, which, I must confess, I don’t even remember. The specifics of much of my life are gone from me. I remember them as the waters that pass away.
Because thou shalt forget thy misery, and remember it as waters that pass away:
The home in which I lived then has not gone from me. I tried to escape it, like many a disillusioned country girl before me and maybe countless others to come. It was a small house in a small village in a small parish in a small island in the middle of a very large sea. It was a house, a home and a goldfish bowl housing a very large fish that wanted nothing more than to be set free in the ocean.
I lived in a white house with grey trim, ash grey trim to be specific. My mother was always specific about her colours. The external walls were white, pure white. Her verandah trim was always green, not just any green, but duck egg green. The internal walls were always off-white, which was really a rich cream with mild undertones of what might be brown or beige. I’m not sure. The internal trim was ash grey and the ceilings were white. She never changed her colour scheme, except in the kitchen, which varied from off-white to a hint of pink, the only splash of real colour she allowed in the house.
The form and function of a house aren’t really the things you remember most. What’s more important is how you felt growing up there. My memories of being a quiet, studious and perhaps quite boring twelve-year-old are untainted with the cares of life or any stains of dysfunction. For this I’m eternally grateful. I had a happy childhood. My house was a home. In spite of everything, that small white house on the large corner lot was my anchor on life’s rough seas. That house is still my home.