imagine my self walking in my village in Russia to my old house. As I walk down a dirt road I can hear the sweet sound of birds chirping and smell smoke from the chimneys in the early morning. I can still see the morning dew on the blades of grass as a little breeze blows into my face. As I come to a stop, I see a green old house. There are weeds growing all around it. I can see that it has been empty for a long time, and paint is starting to peel off. The house looks lonely like a rose in a weed garden. It is a ghost house now filled with memories. As I open the old gate, I can feel the old wood. It feels rough and cracked. I walk to the door and as I push it open a small breeze hits my face. I walk in to it. The old painting of the Mary filled with cob webs and dust is still hanging on the wall next to the window. The old couch is still there at its usual spot by the stove. I walk near the stove. There my grandma’s bloodstain from her broken head is still deep into the wood floor. Childhood memories flood back to me, and the memories are overwhelming. Standing in the middle of the room I can hear my heart thumping against my chest, wind howling between the windows like lost souls. Nothing lives here anymore but memories of my child hood. I look around for the last time and go out. I sit down in the grass in front of the house and look at it for a long time thinking about the things that happen here. Saying goodbye to it I left leaving behind my memories at the old green house.
Place were I want to be.
November 8, 2011