The vestiges of my grandmother’s family home help define and remind me of a simpler, happier time. These come closest to representing perfection to me.
The familiar cracks on the floor, each universally unique and instantly recognizable only to me, as I’ve remembered them all my life.
The walls – worn from passing decades spent eavesdropping on raucous celebrations, anxious trepidations, and quiet collaborations of four generations of my family.
The stern brass door bolts – softened with the glaze of being pulled open ten thousand times to offer hospice and shelter to anyone that reached out or passed through.
Outside, the flowers and greenery, nurtured out of her love,faith and devotion, was once our Narnia. It transported us to perfect new worlds of playfulness.
It is within these hazy outlines of happiest childhood memories that my mind colours in a world of biased affection and impossible contentment. It is here in my childhood memories that perfection exists.