I love my little house.
It was 50 year ago since I first walked into this house, I was
12-year-old. My brother was with me he was 17. My Mother did not like the ceiling in the living room, so had asked my brother and I to change it. Mother had bought some of those polystyrene tiles (cracked ice effect) I have lost count of the times I have painted them brilliant white. Many times people have suggested that I remove them, for 2 reasons. 1. they can be dangerous and 2 because they are old-fashioned. I have refused to do so for 1, reason. While I was living in Sweden during the seventies, my dear brother died tragically at the age of 29. Now if I were to remove said tiles, it would be like destroying a priceless work of art.
After my farther passed away, my Mother asked me to move back in with her. I am so happy I agreed, and so pleased that my Mother never moved from this house. For as I sit here all the memories, good and bad come flooding back. I love this little house and would never move.
I know there are people who move house quite often, for various reasons. Never having lived in a house long enough to love it. When I look at my garden I know it is my garden. I remember every tree, bush and flower that I planted. Every stone that I had placed all those years ago are still in the exact same spot.I have matured and my garden has matured with me. I am surely here for the duration and when I do finely exit this old house. I shall be horizontal. I feel the people who move in here after I have vacated , shall remove the tiles . announcing the end of my existence there and heralding in their own beginning of life in my old house. I hope they learn to love it as much as I do.