(Echoes of) Home

Listen to ‘Missing Pieces’ (Slowed) by Killswitch Memories and Flawed Mangoes to fully immerse yourself in the story I’m trying to convey

I’m surrounded by your warm embrace – I look around and notice the patterned wallpapers, thinly veiled by the affordable yellow paint we got for half price. The small kitchen illuminated in the light, revealing the many scratches on the counter – evidence of my first attempts at cooking. I remember vividly how much I loved sitting on the counter, feet in the sink with chill water beneath, soaking up the sun through the window opposite me. My favourite memory here is of releasing a firefly back into the night after capturing it in a jar, or eating mashed potatoes—my comfort food—by candlelight when the electricity first went out. Back then, I didn’t understand the struggles of being raised by a single parent. Now, when I think of that day, I feel nothing but happiness.

The aroma of homemade dishes lingers, still embedded into space, a time capsule of mornings awakened by the smell of freshly made pastries or mum’s laughter on the phone. The narrow corridor, long enough for me to try my roller-skates, with the door frames bearing the marks of my nephew and me, climbing on their insides like forest creatures.

Nearby the somewhat refurbished bathroom evokes memories of rare flooding or the old dark floors soon replaced by creamy tiles which I would count the number of while showering. The storage room wasn’t just for storing seasonal goods and torshi – it was my hidden sanctuary. It held my silent teenage cries and cradled my childhood adventures with Lucky, hiding from the vacuum cleaner. And then there’s the purple room, where I spent most of my conscious life—staring out the window, looking at the clock, wondering if I’d ever live in London and see the red double-decker buses pictured on it. Ironically, I’ve ridden only one since moving there for work.

The couch and bed provided me with a place to reside at all times—sometimes writing, sometimes sleeping, sometimes crying, or laughing. All of my souvenirs stand on the shelves frozen in time, as if I always turn nineteen again when I step through the door like a time capsule, bringing me back to the good old days. Many things have changed, I rarely visit and have little left to tell my stuffed animals about, especially now with Lucky gone.

Yet, there is something so special about the first place you grow up in like mine. It radiates of warmth and protection, despite its rough shape and thirteen floors above. It feels mildly dystopian being within a wall’s reach of hundreds of people, like a little pebble on the beach among the rest. The clutter, slight imperfections and lack of luxury never meant less to me and now faced with the possibility of giving up the space I grew up in – I feel sad, yet content.

This is the space where I listened to tales from near and far, where I found the extraordinary in the ordinary. Around the dining table, I heard countless stories, making me feel like an adult before I became one. This is where I learned to hold a pen and went through a turmoil of emotions and transitions in my life while growing up. I glance at Lucky’s picture, wondering where he might be. The Christmas decorations and tablecloth don’t warm my heart the way his presence did. The space, once so full, now feels hollow, though still steeped in the memories we made. They say home is where the heart is and part of mine will also be a resident of this space – the small apartment, part of a fifteen-storey block that used to be home to those recruited by the military. It’s on the other end of town, not too desirable for many to live in, yet housing thousands whose stories I’ll never get to know. This was one of the only places that my mum could afford as a single parent running from a toxic relationship with me as a baby. Where she saw struggle, I saw the comfort in this space. Where she saw problems, I saw opportunities, and when she finally found a better place, I found it hard to say goodbye to a chapter of my life I will leave behind forever sealed in the walls of apartment number sixteen.