My home felt like a stranger’s house

The house I grew up in didn’t feel as if it’s mine anymore. I spent most of my childhood here and I thought it was mine. The memories I have of this place are still vivid in my mind.

I remember everything. From the first sleepless night, I spent in here to our dog passing away in the doorway and seeing my dad cry for the first time ever. Oh, maybe the second time. I forgot about that one time when my parents thought I was KIDNAPPED and cried their eyes out and even reported it to the police while I was in the backyard reading the book “ሰመመን” for the 30th time. (I didn’t have many books back then so I reread every book I had).

Yeah, so back to my memories. I remember my father coming back to the house after a year in a hospital in Addis. I also remember my grandma shouting “እልልልል!!” when he entered the house.

I remember the whole family dividing up chores on weekends with Eyob’s album playing loud all over the house after we had our morning coffee. We spent our weekends in our home doing nothing and everything. We were each other’s rock. “We are all we got.” used to say, my father. And he was right. Family will always come first. Oh, my I would kill to have a weekend like that, with him telling me of how useless the posters of twilight and Eminem I have in my room are. And, mom trying to show me how to cook and me hating every second of it because duh onions suck.

I remember me walking to school because it was close to our house. I remember the days when I walked back home crying because someone said something mean to me at school or I was missing my dad when he was away.I remember cutting my veins in my room because I thought no one wanted me and my dad came to my rescue because while in the other room he felt something was wrong. So, he came. He came and saved me. He made sure my wound healed. Physically and emotionally. And I became a stronger version of myself.

All this happened in this house. It was my home back then. Now, it’s been two years since I stopped living here and I’m afraid I left my home before I was ready. Maybe that’s why. That’s why it doesn’t feel right when ever I come back because I wanted to make so much more memories here and now I can’t because I no longer live here and my father isn’t here anymore and the only way I know how to deal with that is thinking of this place as if it’s a stranger’s when in reality it’s mine. I own it with the memories I made in here. This is my home and it will always be my home. But, I will tell myself not, because if I consider this home, I may never find another house to call home and make new memories in with someone I hopefully will call mine.