This Room

this roomStanding in the middle of the room, this room, in this house, filled with so many memories of things said, and things left undone; so many things. This completely empty room, still echoing what had once passed through it. Echoes of the first family who built the house, then of the family that bought it five years later, and then echoes of our family, who spent twenty-five years of birthdays, holidays, summer days and winter days, up to the sad final days of my mother’s life. This room had known so much, seen so much, held so many close in its arms. Generations of families. Decades of lives.

The time spent here was pooling around my feet, rising up my legs, my torso, threatening to suffocate me in this room, this house, but the tears would not stop rolling, one after the other after the other and the other, down my cheeks.

In a month’s time this room, this house, this family place would be gone, torn down for another family, a new family, to build their own place, their own room, their own home. And so the memories will start anew for a new family, in their room, in their house, who will then sell it in five years to the next family, who will in turn sell it to another family who will live there for 25 years, all of them, each family, pooling their memories around their feet, in this room, this house, as if any of us could actually make time stand still.

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