It’s no longer ours. This old home is going to become a part of someone else’s story. Its clay roof tiles are an increasingly quaint curiosity in a sea of Colorbond low-pitch roofs. Dotted here and there are some of its old friends and contemporaries, still perhaps a single generation away from being struck with a wrecking ball, or two generations if they’re lucky. Some of them even have blue roof tiles, a short-lived, but wonderful sign of the latest idea, but one that was now extolled a very long time ago.
I’ve saved these pictures from the public record. This is where we ate, laughed, cried and played. Literally, it is where we come from. As a ten year old, I telepathically begged Mum and Dad to buy the nuclear blue carpet in the living room, and they unconsciously obliged.
I know every light switch, every view, every bend in the footpath, every wobbly lock.
I’ll always be from here.
