I’ve lived almost my whole life in the same house. It’s a place that’s been in our family through four generations since it was built in 1894. Knowing that my ancestors have dug the same soil, watched the same trees grow, and looked out upon the same views makes me feel like I truly belong here. That this place is embedded somewhere in my bones.
My grandmother practically grew up here. It was her grandparents’ house, so she visited a lot. She loves reminiscing; telling stories about the old days and how everything used to look. How there was a tiny sleeping chamber with pink-painted walls where our kitchen is now. Another one, painted a teal-ish turquoise, where our laundry room is. How when they fired up the massive bread oven in the basement, it stayed hot for so long that they invited the neighbours over to bake their bread in it too; the delicious, comforting smell oozing into the street. How they filled churns full of fresh milk and shared it with family and friends. How they drove around in a T-Ford, spent evenings drawing and weaving, and loved the sound of a knock on the door. How there were people sleeping in every single room here during the war.
She shows me old photographs and I’m baffled by how there once were big, open fields where there’s now rows and rows of houses. How there’s asphalt and cars where there used to be oats and hens and cows. It’s bizarre how I would never have known any of this if they hadn’t taken those photographs; if my grandmother hadn’t been here to tell me; if no one had written any of it down. History can be such a fragile thing.
“There used to be a big cherry tree here.” “This is where the garden table always stood.” “That house on the corner was once a kiosk.” “The old man that lived across the street used to come over to rake our leaves during fall because he wanted to help out.”
I see photos of past dinner parties in the room I’m in now, and it’s strange. All the memories this room contains. All the conversations and laughs. All the tears and fears. My great-great-grandparents have once stood in this room. They’ve looked out these windows and seen sun and rain and snow. They’ve talked about the news and thread needles and lit candles. They’ve sung. Danced.
Growing up here, I’ve seen my parents build and restore it into their own home, into mine. I think back to our “computer room” where my brother and I used to play Minesweeper and Bubble Shooter. Our old bathroom. Our old entryway. How my bedroom used to be yellow and now it’s blue. How quickly we get used to something new.
I find something profoundly precious about houses and their history. Not only my own, but everyone’s. That there are all these different people—different generations and families—who have once called the same place ‘home’. I like to imagine that if walls could talk, they’d tell some pretty great stories. Stories of all those who came in and out of the doors. Shoemakers, railway workers, and marketing consultants; mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers; teens who kicked off their shoes in the hall and played loud music in their bedroom; old ladies who solved crossword puzzles and had people over for Sunday tea; kids who had sleepovers, cried during maths homework, and refused to eat all their broccoli.
How there were families who filled empty houses with sound again. Who removed covers from furniture. Drew back curtains and let sunlight stream through the windows, dust whirling in the air. Who told adventurous bedtime stories and baked cookies and always kept a little light on at night. How there were new footsteps down the staircase, new personalities bringing it to life.
I walk by my last apartment. I see people move in and out of the houses in our neighbourhood. I see my childhood friends’ homes up for sale. “I used to live here,” and “I know someone who used to live here,” are such bittersweet phrases. You know every nook and cranny, all the creaks in the floors. How sunlight shines through the dining room windows at 17:00. How the left faucet has to be turned a bit further than the right for any water to come out. How the intercom works on one out of three tries. And now someone else knows all of that too.
You know the layout, all the good hiding spots. How you need to stand on a chair to reach the top kitchen cupboards. How it always gets really hot during summer. How there’s a little secret door on the third floor behind the dresser. How the swirling stair rail can be slid down, but it will hurt. And these new people don’t know that you know. They don’t know that you have all these memories in their home – that you used to hang out there after school. You can walk past them now, maybe smile and nod ‘hi’ if they’re in the front yard, and they won’t know that you’ve spun around their living room in a dress before prom.
We don’t just grow up in our own house. I’ve grown up in my best friend’s house, in my cousins’ house, my grandmother’s and my aunt’s too. I became a young adult in my shared, rented apartments. And there’s a sadness to it, losing a place you know so well, even if it isn’t really yours. A sadness in never being able to step foot somewhere again. At least not in the same way, with the same voices and the same smells.
But I like to believe that history lingers in walls. They’re the steady frame – the skeleton – to the dynamic, ever-changing flow. When everything gets packed up, when every cardboard box is filled and every carpet is ripped out, when all the furniture is gone and all the pictures are taken down, they remain. I can let my fingers glide over their surface and know I’m not the first one to do so. I can sense the fingerprints beneath every layer of paint.
And I wish it could all seep through. I wish the walls could tell me all about this place—my family home. About all the little mundane things I don’t know and will never get to know. All the funny things that happened. The confessions, the discussions, all the stories told around the fireplace. I know it’s all in these walls somewhere. But I can only lie in bed and imagine what the people who have laid here before me, staring up at this exact ceiling, thought about. What their late-night conversations included. What books they had sitting on their bedside tables. I can only assume their dreams and worries, and wonder if they’re the same as mine.
It’s often quite random where we end up living. It tends to align with where the rent is manageable, where there’s an available room, where someone decides to sell at the exact time we’re looking to buy. I do believe home is wherever your people are – that it isn’t about a specific place. Yet I do think you can grow deep roots, that there are certain places that feel more like coming home than others. My roots have certainly taken hold of this one. It’s hard for me to imagine it ever belonging to someone else.
But if it does, or rather when it does, I hope all the love and laughter – all the movie nights and hangouts, all the singing and dancing, crying and arguing, all the meals we’ve made, all the wishes, the hugs, the flowers, the notes, all the tea and chocolate and birthday cakes – will linger. I hope the walls will talk about us.
Thank you to Yasha for your wonderful thoughts and edits on this piece <3
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This was beautiful Carina :) like a nostalgic film flickering on a projector
Especially loved “Yet I do think you can grow deep roots, that there are certain places that feel more like coming home than others.”
beautiful words strung together to create a beautiful piece! thank you for writing this, carina! it was a pleasure and an honour to read this before the world got to :))🫶