Houses

There was once a little boy. Maybe you’d seen him. He used to stay in the house in the corner. But not for long. He moved a lot see?

I met the man he has become recently and we talked for a while. I asked him why he always moved and he said it was because he got bored easily. He also said it was because he was looking for a haven; a place he could rest his head.

“And have you found it?”, I asked him.

He smiled at me. “I always had it. I just never knew it. So, I changed houses. One day I’d be in a white house with blue curtains. The next day I would wake up in a dark house with moth eaten ones. I was young and there was time. There was always time.

The houses had each their own charm, and I made friends in the 

locality very quickly. So I don’t think it was loneliness that spurred me to seek different quarters. Truth be told, I didn’t know what it was. It was as if the house itself grew tired of me and told me one day to leave.

Even today, I’m in limbo, stuck between two cities and two houses. One of them has a dilapidated toilet, set in with superglue; and a half constructed staircase leading up to the gate.

The other is beautiful- large, spacious and full of love. My family stays there. My world resides there. That place for my head I mentioned? I found it.

For you see my friend, I forgot one very important thing. A house is not a home. The places you live are not your home. Your home is where you have your loved ones waiting at the door for you. It is where you can show up at all hours of the night, confident that someone will open the door.

I said I got bored. I didn’t realise I carried my home with me wherever I went, secure in a pocket of my four chambered heart. My parents and my dog were there with me. That’s what mattered. Not the house I lived in, not the blue curtains or the yellow patio, but the five foot ten man with a cigarette in his hand and the woman in the rocking chair with a Georgette Heyer novel. Not to mention the amber coloured angel with liquid brown eyes, who has left us now to attend the great gig in the sky.

All these houses in all these localities that I lived in for so long were just houses. Brick and cement, held together by engineering. They lacked the spark that made them home. In my mind’s eye, home was a collection of smells. Smells of potpourri and garlic eminating from the kitchen. Smells of fresh beer bought from the local store.  Home to me meant mother’s cooking. Home to me meant my father teaching me mathematics. No house could ever be my home. My home was in my heart.

I minded, no I resented having to move so much. I resented having to leave behind a place I thought I belonged to. I was naive. All I needed was two people. Those two people were an anchor. I realise that now, in this new spacious house where dwells my family.

Everytime I get on the bus to come here, I’m happy. Everytime I get on the bus to leave a part of me wishes I didn’t have to go. In between, I remind myself that I do not belong in other places and that gives me peace. Peace I did not have before.

Therefore, the answer to your question my friend is yes. Yes I have found what I was looking for.  I don’t have to leave anymore. I just have to catch a bus.”

So spoke the man, once a boy. I thought long and hard about what he said. I felt I had to share it.

The Bilge Master