What Feels Like Home
The pit patter of raindrops on my hair gradually increases. I sprawl down
on the grass, unaffected by the light tickle of ladybug legs on my arms, and
survey the smoky sky. Vast clouds assert their presence as they filter through
the neighboring roads, drenching gardens and making way through sieve-like
roofs. The fragrances of dew, roses and wild boar stew, a rare olfactory delight,
commence to hover around the garden. I look sideways at the road but the redbrick house towers over, eclipsing all outlooks on the south. The house is hauntingly
animated, with its clunking shades and clattering window-charms and the kitchen
door, which leads into the garden, opens and closes its mouth as if in hesitation,
only to begin a synchronized dance with the front gate. My garden is incongruous,
with endless rows of blossoms and one eccentric tree, but as I am eccentric, this always seems fine.
The grass around me has now been inundated by the unremitting stream of rain, but
somehow still exudes warmth, whilst my mug of hot chocolate begins to sink
into the puddle next to me. My special tree is helpful against the deluge of water smacking down upon all the surfaces of Epsom Downs, so I feel no urgency to go inside. My aunt tracks out of the kitchen and leaves a mammoth bowl in a rain-pool nearby me before hastening back into the house, behind her the breathtaking aroma of fresh-baked fairy-cakes and vanilla custard. My bowl is crammed to the rim with fresh pork-and-leek sausages, creamed potatoes and Yorkshire puddings, a lavish serving of authentic wild boar stew and a side of cherry tomatoes, sliced queen strawberries and mustard vinaigrette. The melodic whistle of a diligent cook always emanates from our kitchen in England at this time of day, thus arousing the involvement of fellow birds perched on the timber windowsills. This musical exchange only happens back in this house and it feels like a fairy-tale, a Disney motion-picture in my life.
All qualms flutter away and my primary concern for today is just returning to
the house before I'm ankle-deep in rainwater. A tiny packet, enclosed in
pink, soars into the air and plummets with an inelegant splat on the squelchy
grass-bed. I smirk, identifying my Aunt’s express dessert delivery. I roll out
haphazardly onto the lawn, uninterrupted by the inquisitive looks of the
elderlies, grip the packet of fairycakes and roll back. This is my abode, where my physical lethargy is permitted to triumph over exertion and objective. Some ancient ladies walking back from the Ashley Mall give me a knowing wink, and it feels noble,
having your absurdity and self-indulgent actions appreciated. This place is my
home, where all my memories live. Sitting under the tree can be paralleled to
lounging in a time warp, wedged between the past, actuality and an undefined
future. The rain now forms an almost-opaque screen, encasing one house after
the other, proud and fluid in its motions.
The newspaperman is rattled but punctual; arriving at 4:35 precisely and
speedily propelling the mail through the door opening, exasperated and
departing without a second glance. The old ladies from further down the
countryside promenade leisurely with their store-bough synthetic waterproofs
and gumboots, patiently expecting the next bus to Tottenham. I watch from my
dirt-mound under the tree, idly slumped upon the trunk, and sporadically salute
neighbors as they walk by, engulfing my early dinner: I’m basically drenched
and now cold, but content. My infancy resides within the walls of this house,
making it’s way back to me every year as I sit in the garden on a rainy day, eating
my favorite foods and experiencing the routine procession of events in Epsom
Downs, England. This is my home.
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