Every morning I walk past the house I lived in last year. I revel in the surreal feeling I get when I stare at the new set of curtains that dangle where mine once hung. I can almost see the silhouettes of conversations smoking on the front stoep. I long to catch a glimpse of the girls who have replaced each of us and figure out if they like blasting music so loud it soothes their troubled souls or if they make each other laugh so hard they have to hold onto the walls. I often wonder if they sit, cross-legged on the kitchen counters – sipping tea and speaking into the night about their childhoods and old imaginary friends.
Sometimes I’ll stare at a specific patch of driveway on the other side of the gate and consider the fact that not a single soul in that house knows the significant of that place where first kisses turned into screams and irreversible curses.
Every morning that I pass that front door I can hear the inconvenient clang of the security gate at 2am back when tasting the stars and the wind was a secret insomniatic ritual.
I’ll trace the blueprints of that house in my mind and cry out in dismay at the ghosts of shattered friendships that haunt rooms 2 and 4. The new tenants will never hear the words that can not be taken back nor will they read the unsent letters that used to litter the floors.
I’ll clutch the fence that now separates me from the person who moved her world into the little matchbox room that smelled like old wood and innocence. I’ll let go at the thought of how liberating it was to carry my final box of world out of that matchbox room.
Every morning I walk past that house and thank it and the four girls who used to live there for saving me a little.