Memories of Home
Sitting down by the front porch, in a chair as old as him, he thinks of home. Home is the place one grew up in, he thinks, home is the place one remembers with nostalgia when one is old and the memories and dreams are hard to distinguish. Home, in my case is the first ocean I ever saw, the men I grew up with working on boats under the blue skies and pleasant winds. Home is the memories that are left when everything else seems to leave us.
He remembers the town; the small plaza, the church, the old people smiling at him as if they knew him, and they probably did. His eyes are closed, and he believes to recognize the scent of the ocean, the scent of the wet sand, the noise of the steps of the people running on the beach around him. He smiles, as he takes in the past.
The sun hits his chair, a few clouds have moved now, but his eyes are still closed, and in his memories he is now thirteen, and the sun touches his young skin, and he sees his friends running up and down the streets, and suddenly he is running with them, his legs are young again, and the sun burns his young legs and he laughs.
Home never leaves, he almost whispers to himself, even if you leave home. The farther away you get from it, the more present it’ll be, and it’ll always come back, even if it is in your dreams. The afternoon advances, and the images of his childhood, the images of his old home keep coming back. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, it’ll be all over if he does, and even if he wanted to he couldn’t, he realizes, maybe he has fallen asleep.
In the distant he hears children laughing, loud laughs, young and powerful laughs, and eventually there is only one laugh he hears, it’s his own. His eyes are still closed, they won’t open again, he is happy, he is back home.
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