13/12/2024
The Old Childhood Home, Rain, Books, and Memories
When I close my eyes, I can still hear the soft patter of rain against the roof of our old childhood home. That house wasn’t just a shelter; it was a universe of memories, love, and stories.
On rainy days, I had a ritual. I’d grab a book, usually one from our old wooden almirah's dusty shelves, and settle by the wide-open window. The earthy scent of rain-soaked mud would mix with the faint aroma of Mommy's cinnamon tea brewing in the kitchen. The cool breeze carried whispers of leaves rustling and the occasional croak of a distant frog.
The rain was my background music as I got lost in the world of words. My favorite spot was the corner where an old armchair stood, its cushions worn but comforting, as if it remembered every story I’d ever read there.
Sometimes, I’d glance out at the rain falling in silver sheets over the lush green yard, dreaming of adventures far beyond that house.
But you know what stayed with me most? It wasn’t the books or even the rain—it was the feeling of being wrapped in a cocoon of simplicity and love. Life was slower, softer, and filled with moments that didn’t demand attention but quietly filled your heart.
Now, whenever it rains, I sip my cinnamon tea and think of that little kid, lost in his book, in that old childhood home. How I wish I could tell him to cherish every drop of rain, every turn of a page, and every second in that magical corner.
Somewhere in the rhythm of the rain, I still find him, and I hope I never lose him. ❤️
