A Letter to the House That Once Knew Me

A love letter to the walls that held my silence, my laughter, and all the versions of me I was becoming.

I don’t know why I thought of you today.
Maybe it was the way the light fell on the floor beside me,
like it used to in your garage,
where I’d draw crooked chalk lines and call them hopscotch.
Remember?
The way my foot would hover before the jump,
as if I was deciding whether to leap forward,
or stay.

Do you remember me?

I was the girl who filled your lungs with my wonder,
spilled stories into your walls without knowing.
I wandered your corridors with questions,
and named every corner like it was mine to keep.
You knew me when no one else did –
the real me, not the one dressed for guests.
The barefoot, wide-eyed girl who turned your lawn into a stage.
I would sit there for hours, imagining I was someone –
a host, a singer, a storyteller.
Sometimes I'd hum to the breeze.
Did you hear me?

You were more than brick and paint.
You were witness.
You held me when I was too quiet for too long.
You cradled my silence,
never once asking me to be louder than I could.

Do my echoes still drift through your rooms?
Do they curl up near the windows like they used to,
when the power would go out and we’d sing into the dark?
My siblings and I –
playing secret scientists in our cushion-walled Lab,
concocting invisible potions with glitter and lotion and mud.
Do you remember the laughter that spilled over?
How we whispered “dark dark room”,
and hid behind curtains as if the world was ending,
and all we had to do was stay still and giggle?

My friends knew you too.
They'd rush in with carefree ‘tudes and snacks in their hands.
We’d play badminton in your driveway until dusk,
or sit in circles making fake calls from your landline,
trying not to laugh before someone picked up.
Did you laugh with us, or just listen?

Sometimes I was afraid,
but you never made me feel alone.
You wrapped yourself around me,
quietly.
Not like a shelter,
but like an old friend who says nothing,
yet somehow understands everything.

And now I wonder –
do you miss me?

Is there a version of me still there,
hopping across faded chalk lines,
waiting for her turn to sing again?
Is there a shadow of my dreams tucked inside your closet,
where I once hid just to feel hidden?

I think of you when I feel lost.
I think of how you held all versions of me;
the loud, the quiet,
the dreamer, the watcher, the little girl,
who thought the world could be hers,
and quietly laid its first bricks,
with songs and pretend games and open skies.

I wonder if you still smell like that time of my life.
If someone else lives there now?
Do they ever feel my presence?
Does the laughter ever slip back in?
Do the walls ever hum?

If I could return,
would you recognize me?

If I pressed my hand against your door,
would you sigh like you’ve been waiting?

Because I’ve carried you everywhere –
not just in memory,
but in the way I look for belonging.
I’ve looked for your comfort in strange places,
but nothing has ever held me
like you did.

Yours,
the dreamer you helped raise,
Anum