Realtalewryter writes home

My earliest memory of my first house was in a town called Raunds.  It was a semi-detached house with a drive way for my dad’s car.  If you faced it from the opposite of the road, you would see on the ground (left side) there was a patch of grass, with a tiny white fence made out of metal, painted white.  Directly under the window, a patch of plants, various flowers growing.  On the right was the driveway.  The front door was wooden and bright red.  A golden number 29.  Three big windows at the front of the house.  At the end of the drive way was a tall wooden gate that was locked, it lead to the back garden.  I remember getting a piece of wood stuck in my palm from pushing the gate.  A splinter.  My mum had to fetch a safety pin to take it out.  I remember the pain.  

Most of the time, the house was quiet, as my big sisters all went to school.  My dad would work all day and night.  I would never see him.  I remember being scared of him.  It was because I didn’t know who he was.  I remember I used to cry and slam my hands in the window.  I watch my sisters leave for school, one by one, with their packed lunches and combed black hair into silky tight pony tails.  My eldest sister attended the high school, and the three between me and the eldest attended the junior school.  I wasn’t old enough to start school yet.  

I don’t remember the smells.  It’s all very visual.  When you entered the house, you would end up in the hallway.  Directly infront of your the hallway would divide into two, on the immediately left was a door that led to the living room, directly in front, was a corridor that led into the kitchen, then on the right was the stairway, that led upstairs to the bathroom and three bedrooms.  I remember sleeping in a cot, it was a big cot, in my parents bedroom.  Then the day arrived where I got my single bed, which was right next to my parents double sized bed.  Shortly, there after, we moved to the town, that I have grown up and settled, and now still there as a married woman.  

I still dream about this home.  It was my first home and ideal.  When I write fiction, I always base my stories on this first house. 



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