House of Movers
Every house has a story to tell. Except that it hardly finds a way to communicate . It was a particularly thrilling moment of my life when I first came to take a look of 79 Rundlehorn Terrace. It was the kind of house that immediately welcomed you in its warm embrace. Perhaps because people never seemed to stay long under its roof. And perhaps the periods of emptiness were longer than that of being occupied by tenants.
One fine evening we arrived at the said place with all our belongings and I set out to make it a home. The first thing we checked was the mail box, wherein lay the mail which started all of this. My first weblog and my first post on it. A mail addressed to a former occupant, which from now onwards we'll refer to simply as Chadwick.
I do not know even now why I opened that particular mail because I was supposed to throw it away with the garbage. Maybe it was the handwriting on the envelope. A child's hadwriting. That could be identified at the first glance. And bearing the sender's address from some charitable organization somewhere in Africa. Was it Make-a-wish foundation or something else? I do not remember.
Yet I knew after reading that letter, which was from a child as guessed earlier, that our Chadwick guy must have been a lonely sweet old guy, living life luxuriously and still caring about lesser fellow-beings of this planet. It also turned out that the handwriting belonged to the kid's father, not the kid himself and it was a thank you letter to Chadwick for sponsoring the child's education.
Other mails followed suit including some mails bringing bad news regarding my own life. However, I was always on the lookout for mails bearing Chadwick's name. To find out what happened to him, why he did not notify anyone about his change of address and most of the time, wondering what might have happened to him, other than the stupid conjectures that I keep making about the possible sequence of events that might have occurred right under this very roof.
I received a mail that informed him that he has got a scholarship of two thousand bucks a month from some college, another one that brought him his renewed driving licence , another informing about his employee stock options from a renowned company here and yet another one that had his health insurance and one that told me that he drove a Honda Civic. I kept wondering what might have happened.
More mails kept pouring in, the majority of which were our monthly bills which we barely manage to afford under our present circumstances and those of other previous occupants of this house including Chadwick's. But I did not open other mails except Chadwick's.
The last few mails of his made me reconsider my first impression about him: lonely-sweet-old -guy living-life -luxuriously, because one was a Return-of-Employment form from a nearby restaurant which stated he had worked as a waiter and had quit the job on so and so date and the other concerning his licence but which let me know he had a room-mate named Aaron. So our guy wasn't alone after all and had a friend with him.
I am moving out of this house in three day's time, after staying just four months here, under not-very-happy-circumstances. I might never come to know what had happened to our guy because I will not be able to receive other mails sent for him. Yet I know this house has seen it all, the same way it sees what has befallen us at the moment. I have met the next occupant of this house, who will move in right after we move out. Packing up all our belongings for the move has been heart-breaking for me. Taking out each and every item that one had so carefully and lovingly put up to make this place a home. I wish this house would tell me what had happened to Chadwick. Or would it tell the next occupant what had led to us packing and leaving the first real home of my life?
One fine evening we arrived at the said place with all our belongings and I set out to make it a home. The first thing we checked was the mail box, wherein lay the mail which started all of this. My first weblog and my first post on it. A mail addressed to a former occupant, which from now onwards we'll refer to simply as Chadwick.
I do not know even now why I opened that particular mail because I was supposed to throw it away with the garbage. Maybe it was the handwriting on the envelope. A child's hadwriting. That could be identified at the first glance. And bearing the sender's address from some charitable organization somewhere in Africa. Was it Make-a-wish foundation or something else? I do not remember.
Yet I knew after reading that letter, which was from a child as guessed earlier, that our Chadwick guy must have been a lonely sweet old guy, living life luxuriously and still caring about lesser fellow-beings of this planet. It also turned out that the handwriting belonged to the kid's father, not the kid himself and it was a thank you letter to Chadwick for sponsoring the child's education.
Other mails followed suit including some mails bringing bad news regarding my own life. However, I was always on the lookout for mails bearing Chadwick's name. To find out what happened to him, why he did not notify anyone about his change of address and most of the time, wondering what might have happened to him, other than the stupid conjectures that I keep making about the possible sequence of events that might have occurred right under this very roof.
I received a mail that informed him that he has got a scholarship of two thousand bucks a month from some college, another one that brought him his renewed driving licence , another informing about his employee stock options from a renowned company here and yet another one that had his health insurance and one that told me that he drove a Honda Civic. I kept wondering what might have happened.
More mails kept pouring in, the majority of which were our monthly bills which we barely manage to afford under our present circumstances and those of other previous occupants of this house including Chadwick's. But I did not open other mails except Chadwick's.
The last few mails of his made me reconsider my first impression about him: lonely-sweet-old -guy living-life -luxuriously, because one was a Return-of-Employment form from a nearby restaurant which stated he had worked as a waiter and had quit the job on so and so date and the other concerning his licence but which let me know he had a room-mate named Aaron. So our guy wasn't alone after all and had a friend with him.
I am moving out of this house in three day's time, after staying just four months here, under not-very-happy-circumstances. I might never come to know what had happened to our guy because I will not be able to receive other mails sent for him. Yet I know this house has seen it all, the same way it sees what has befallen us at the moment. I have met the next occupant of this house, who will move in right after we move out. Packing up all our belongings for the move has been heart-breaking for me. Taking out each and every item that one had so carefully and lovingly put up to make this place a home. I wish this house would tell me what had happened to Chadwick. Or would it tell the next occupant what had led to us packing and leaving the first real home of my life?
posted by Zenobia | 12:57 AM
1 Comments:
I think the original owner of your house has either moved to an invalid house or has died.
this theory on account of lack of concern for renewed license.
think if you would've been less disturbed if you had left this house after, say, 4 years. try not to feel much about it. if you get the trick you will stop being a human being and attain moksha.
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