THE HOUSE THAT REMEMBERS

The old house still stands, Though its paint has lost the fight. The door makes the same sound, Half complaint, Half welcome. On one wall are pencil marks— Our heights, Year after year. The kitchen still remembers Morning tea And hurried school days. The courtyard waits For games that ended Without a final whistle. An old fan turns slowly, As if searching For forgotten voices. Festivals once filled every room, Lights outside, Laughter within. There were fights too, Doors closed hard, Words spoken in anger. But by dinner, Someone always called, “Come, the food is getting cold.” Then one by one We left the house To build other homes. Whenever I return, The rooms look smaller— The memories do not. A house cannot speak, Yet this one tells me every time: We grew up and went away, But a part of us Never crossed its door.