I just deleted my old postal address from another place. It's like I'm slowly taking away, piece by piece, the proof of my childhood. I don't like relying on my memory. Because memories are ephemeral. They are not constant, but prone to life's impacts.
Miss B's Nonno just had a stroke and lost his entire memory. He doesn't have a personality anymore, he doesn't have family or knowledge. He has a beginning, where previously at eighty-three he had an ending.
I don't want to forget the winter mornings, where I would look out that old kitchen window, with the jars of flowers and moulding white wood. I would see the day beginning, the day ending, my reflection and people passing.
I don't want to forget sitting in the doorway with the white door that stuck no matter the weather, with the old mat beneath my feet and the office across me. The doorway where I learnt to tie my shoes, where I would clean my endless wounds or be impatiently waiting for mother to hurry up. Or where I would just simply sit listening and talking to second Mum while she did the ironing.
I miss the old hallway, with its taller than trees roof and the old pictures lining it's sides. I miss padding up it to my room.
My room - a sanctuary I oddly never felt safe. A place where I felt the eyes of the past watching me. A place where my monster was allowed to grow, expand and take form. A place where I could never sleep for fear of not waking again.
Our garden, which by day was our wonderland. But by nightfall, it belonged to things we did not dare to think of in fear of what they could do to us.
I miss my childhood.