The House I Grew Up In

I walked past the house that I grew up in. It was a two-bed semi-detached end-terrace, and I loved it. The red door, once bright, was faded, and in its mind it was thinking of better days. The gate to the side of the house was the same gate to the side of the house that I thought was rusty when I lived there. I would have looked a bit weird to anyone who saw me standing there, staring at my old house, but I had my dog with me, so that bought me some time. Just a guy out walking his dog of an evening. Nothing weird about that. Nope, nothing weird at all.

The clouds lingered above as if they weren’t quite sure if they wanted to rain on me. A car went past, stirring leaves and grit in its wake. My dog looked up at me, and his eyes said, “Look, there’s no time like the present, mate. Let’s go and have a sniff over there by that tree.” But the past had a hold on me. The past held me there and wouldn’t let go. It said, “Look at the house you grew up in. Look at it. Remember all the good times. It feels good, doesn't it?” And it did feel good to remember. Only, it felt sad, too. All the memories were good ones, but to remember them felt sad.