The vanished voices of my childhood

I was sitting there, under the peace of the trees my late grandfather planted with love, waiting for the solace to come. Almost in a semi coma, in a mysterious oblivion, I was trying to bring back to life the vanished voices of my happy childhood spent in the walls of this house, the house with a stack of deserted rooms where grief and devastation nestled down by now.

Strolling through these dark rooms with broken furniture, dusty curtains, torn pages of an old newspapers and old toys on the floors, I realized that the house of my childhood doesn’t exist anymore.

The only way to recall my childhood memories are these incoherent attempts of putting my feelings into words. And most of the time I fail doing so.