Once, each of us has had a child’s house. The house, you can’t attend the house that must be absent now. You can only call it to mind: distant, vague formed, smells and sounds fanned, with the feeling of careless blue sky childhood. What was it indeed? What our memory arrived at? We can’t distinguish. Year in year out the house has been sinking in the snows of forgetfulness. When we try to look for that, we find featureless houses or rural wasteland on the former place. There is no sign of cozy house and the entire generations lived out their lives in it.
I used to have the same house that smelled sweets in the morning. While nodding I heard the voices out the kitchen, which made me wake up insensibly. I see grandmother’s hands and face by snatches. Here am I sitting again on her knees and still remembering the perception of warmth and love feeling. Here is deeply sun lighted meadow with dreamlike tree in front of the house. I remember the merry spirit that goes along every child being involved in the game with the same as he is – brothers, sisters and friends. I see the carpet where my bed was standing; I could even go on a child dream journey with that carpet. Everything we saw and heard in the childhood has special colours and tunes afterwards.
But there was another house. It existed although was made up. Not being fabricated in the game but for real. I imagine that house when father describes it to me. It has life effect on my family – brother, mother and father. One day they also used to be children there when I was even unborn. The look of the house is called to mind, very distant but painfully native the same time. The house has his own grief for the things I don’t remember and don’t know; at once it’s the part of my life and myself. As if my remembrance reflects my parents’ memories and someone else’s; that sight just arises in me on its own. The house from my memory even has the colour: it’s blue like endless summer sky we used to admire being children while lying in the balmy grass.
The city is being developed on the house place now. And the tree with useful for games and caressing shaggy trunk has been already cut. Many people assisting my childhood have sunk into oblivion so far. But the feeling of endless child happiness and misted fragments are still alive in my remembrance. The fog insensibly muffled up both houses, the sight imposed them together, mixed pictures, smells and tunes. The blueness of small wooden house is still there as a sign of child ecstasy. And the carpet as past messenger is also there; it’s scrubbed a bit as also my memory, but still connects me with childhood as if I can simply touch it.