“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.” -Nelson Mandela
The front steps were the only constant part of the house, so many parts had been torn down and rebuilt over the years, there was no keeping track and no one really ever thought to do so. The old house stood in the background of many family pictures, as if it were a member. The fields surrounding it were wild with neglect, they no longer consisted of the neat rows I remembered running through, over, and down. Every few years I was pulled back to the house, either by force or obligation, but never choice. This visit was out of obligation.
I never lived in the place, it was the former home of my father, and he left it a long time ago. The family farm it stood on had been around since the 1890s, about a hundred plus years ago my great great something or other purchased this place, and it hosted generations upon generations of my family until my grandfather’s bunch grew up and away. The place was a life force, of sorts, when I was younger it was my fantastical playground, full of creaky stairs, old toy chest, dark forest, and stoic neighbors. People grew up, things grew with them, seems like every weed filled acre reflects their overgrown lives. They left it here, all of them when they no longer needed it and it still needed them. This place feels like an attic, full of dead dreams, dusty floors, and forgotten backgrounds.