Thoughts on the Definition of a House
Before bed, my husband and I had a conversation about decluttering things. He said he couldn’t stand watching the stuff piled in my parents’ house, from unused floppy disks and cassettes to shabby chests. I said, me, too, but I had no heart to discard it all. He might think I am too emotional, but that’s the reality out of it. The stuff put so many memories for the four of us — mom, dad, my brother and I.
We have an old doll drawer with now unused backpacks. We have a huge tv chest, with lots of old stuff now the tv can’t even fit. We also have a stuffed sliding wardrobe, not to mention a row of dad’s office shirts in our maid’s bedroom. We even have a pile of umrah luggage as well as me and my brother’s old study desks. People might want to call a dump truck to bring it all out but they are still there for a reason. Somehow I remember how the doll drawer has always been there in photographs and never been replaced since I was born; I remember we bought the tv chest to fit the small retro tv; I remember watching all the DVDs about Pooh and friends. The memories bring me back to the time when I threw a birthday party early in junior high school, but I didn’t really invite people because I was kinda hesitate. Turns out only four friends came when my home people had prepared carpets, with pizzas and everything. We ended up playing in my room instead. But above all, I remember when I was around 5 years old, my parents brought us to see our small house being built, my dad kneeled, brought up my hands and prayed, “ya Allah, ease the process of building this house, make this a warm home, where we can shelter comfortably, aamiin”. Alhamdulillah, after all these years, the 20-year-old house is still my favorite place to be. This place that we call home may not be perfect. But I will not forget how its walls witnessed all the happiness and sorrow, the tears, and most of the time, the warmth my parents poured us, their kids.
Tearing up, I decided I wouldn’t discard our small, perfect, childhood study desks. I remember those were the best ones my dad could buy for us when our friends were getting new ones. I realize the stuff, even if they have no more value now, represent the effort my parents made to give the best for their kids. As a kid, it wasn’t the price tag that mattered, but the cuddle and giggle we had in our parent’s room every evening my dad came back from the office. It was the time and the warmth that made it all perfect. Always.
