I’ll miss every single morning, waking up facing my old, crumbling wall, where the grey wallpaper has come off the walls and you can see the zinc. I will miss reaching out with my finger towards a part of the wallpaper and pick at it. Not tear it off or make the wallpaper even more torn off – no. I would just pick at it and as if check if it’s still holding on to the old walls that I grew up in. In this room I spent half of my life. Why only half? Well in this room my brother spent his teenage years and only when he left the nest was I able to inhabit his room. I always wished to be in his room. Here I imagined myself building armies, plotting to take over kingdoms. This would be my castle, my guard, my home.
I’ll miss the summer’s breeze that washes over me when I sit near one of the country side houses, where the two sweet cheery-trees grow. The old bench that my grandfather built in his time – a very simplistic yet effective creation. Two simple planks, not taken care off and always parts of it splintering off, nailed down to two wood blocks of the old apple trees that we cut down. The bench, if one would even call it that, is not comfortable but I guess the sentimental value makes it pleasant and close to the heart. I remember sitting on that same bench and looking up to the sky, where the pure sky is covered in dark red, sweet cherries. The times when we would get out a ladder and start climbing to the tops of these trees and gather all the cherries into a bucket, then finally sit at home and enjoy the desert as a family. Those where the best moments of the summer. Alongside with the smell of freshly cut grass or the burning sensation of the hot wind brushing against your face.
I’ll miss walking past the dark forests to the river. I will miss slowly tumbling down the small hill towards the ground where moles have turned up and made the walk down even less enjoyable. Yet in the dark forests, where all sorts of creatures lived and made their homes, you would feel the closest to nature’s heart. On the walk there one would start to hear the sounds of the water trickling down the few hills. How much I will miss the river that I was born from. Not in a mystical way –no. There I spent most of my summers, especially when I was still little and I and my brother would go there for a swim after I had helped him do all the hard work. I remember him, sweating and barely catching his breath after manual labor and looking down at me, with such sincerity in his eyes and compassion in his movements. He would smile and slowly pick me up, place me on his shoulders and we would both walk towards our river. I knew he was tired yet my selfish side didn’t want to miss out on such special occasions when I felt so close to him.
I’ll miss the line of birch trees. I have a fascination with such trees, most likely because of their unique trunks that are covered in black and white spots as if the zebra of trees. I quite enjoy the fact that birches are the first ones to gain and lose their green leaves. I only think of spring and autumn whenever I look at these marvelous, tall trees. We had another one, one to the side, far away from the young ones. A fifty meter tall tree, reaching towards the sky, its stump thick and filled with ants and termites. We had to cut it down as it started leaning more and more towards the ground, most likely wishing to lay down and finally gain rest after enduring so many storms. Now, between the not so young birch trees there is my hammock. There I would lay whenever I had free time, whenever I wasn’t working and sweating while the either too cold or too hot breeze would make me jump. I will miss the sound of all the leaves wiggling about on the branches as a stronger wind passed them. I will miss seeing the yellow leaves fall off the trees and cover the ground and when few gusts of warm weather would hit, they would become dry and every time you step on them, they crackle and you smile.
I will miss getting back into my bed, where the same piece of torn wallpaper is and the same four corners that I left in the morning. I will miss, covering myself in the same duvet that I had for so many ears and looking up at the crumbling, white ceiling that I once hit with a ball and few pieces of it came falling down.
Then I would hear my father shout at my mother.
With me slowly preparing to leave home and go out into the world, certain memories cling to heart.