There is this little house in a village in the South of the low lands. It exists and yet it does no longer. It is the house this little old lady used to live in. I remember vividly, you’d never enter the front door but you’d always go around the back, entering through this little space before the actual living area. To the left would be the kitchen and she would be seated there, always there in the corner. The homely smell of coffee and comfort. She’d tell me to take a drink if I wanted to and sweets, of course there were always sweets.
We talked about so many things in that kitchen and she was there in that kitchen listening to me during the hardest of times. Other times she’d be in the living room, watching some quiz on tv or cycling championship or she’d just be gazing out of the window. In the back room I’ve performed so many plays as a kid. This is the place I used to come to on holidays every year and later, when we moved up here, I’d pass by weekly. Years passed, I moved away once again I’d come to visit every time I’d be in the village. She would listen to my stories, always flatter me as she’d always would be convinced I lost weight even if not so. Always complimenting my dresses. And about boys, well you’d have no shame and say it all. She’d tell me there are plenty fish in the sea so don’t worry.
It is a place that exist and doesn’t at the same time. A vacuum, a black hole, an image engraved in my memory. A timeless place of comfort and life where cookies are abundant. I was there, in the village, some time ago. It’s a strange place to which I do belong and do not at the same time, a limbo. A place in between. It has become a place of sorrow for me as all seems the same and yet everything has changed. I never belonged there and yet because of this little sweet lady I did belong. That house although it will change, it is changing, it will be unchangeable in my heart, with its garden, the walnut tree, the flowers, the apple tree, the vegetables. She will be there for ever in the house in my head, the memory of this place I used to spend my blissful holidays before life turned out to be real no longer a dream.