• baking brownies or whipping eggs or roasting potatoes
  • evening tea sitting at the table, talking about every subject under and over the sun, receiving the strong scent of marmite from two seats in front of me and opening the freshly baked bread with a knife, making tiny sandwiches of tomato and butter and avocado
  • going upstairs to our bedroom upon our arrival to always find surprises under the pillows
  • hanging my feet in the slots between each staircase in the third floor, pretending to be on a plane, sometimes desperate that I won't be able to slide my feet out
  • looking at the pictures of my English great-grandparents in my grandparents' bedroom, as well as the very random portrait of Jesus and my favourite rocking chair, which is almost like a couch
  • looking out into the window and never being able to tell where is it that the beginning of the way home starts, because no matter how many times I've been there, the trees always deceive me
  • my hair that feels so light after washing it with the purest water, and as a reward for showering when it's so cold... shiniest hair than ever
  • playing with the water hose in the summer, turning the irrigator and walking under it to try, ironically, to avoid the water from touching us
  • reclining in the armchair and pushing it dangerously aback
  • sitting in front of the stove in winter, putting my clothes in front of it and sometimes helping Tony put new wooden logs
  • sitting in the living room with Tiare warming my feet, or else standing up beckoning me to caress her
  • sitting under "my" Apple Tree to read and draw, leaving letters to the faeries there and looking out the window every day, every moment, to see if they had been taken and replaced by their response
  • sneaking upstairs to Tony's study, feeling as if it were an astronomical observatory, with blue wallpaper and crystal ornaments, with a perfect view of the garden and a diagonal ceiling that can, at a given space, almost grasp his head
  • taking off my shoes and feeling my feet are set in the Arctic until I put on the socks with sticky things that are always readily available when going to my second home
  • taking Tiare on the famous stroll: going round to the right to where the trees are crammed, zigzagging log stumps, going past the bench and behind the cabin, then sneaking inside the other round of trees where the forest starts, leaning as we walk towards the compost area where Tiare and I wait, and then going past what was the chicken's coop and the hydrangeas, taking a whole turn around the house, and then going around what could be called the front garden and heading inside
  • the air of freshness, ice and eucalyptus reaching your lungs
  • the balcony from which the scent of tobacco is always emitted, where Tony and I have long conversations
  • the bees in the flowers in said balcony, the bees that sometimes go past the window and reflect a shadow on the dining room that Tiare chases endlessly
  • the crack of twigs and dry leaves under walking feet
  • the crying birds when I awoke early in the morning, trying not to awake my sister when sneaking out of bed
  • the famous chanting of the grandfather's clock
  • the funny sound of the piso flotante, Tiare's nails clanking when she is excited to see us come home
  • the glass table and how the glass is slidable; playing with putty on it and leaving marks
  • the house being held by wooden poles; the faeries live under it
  • the kitchen that smells of fruit baskets, spices, marmalade, bread, and everything you could find
  • the rocky road in Loncotraro and all the turns it takes, this time I know them all
  • the steam and scent of salt and the sound of tiny explosions when cooking meat before lunch. Lunch is the meal I dread the most, but at my grandparents' house it is always my favourite
  • the table where my grandmother keeps everything she'd ever need for baking and cooking, lined beside the wall, and there is always a tiny dish with whatever vegetable and a knife for whenever Tiare asks for food
  • things that haven't changed in decades: the wallpaper, the flower pots, the china, the bedrooms, the furniture, the decorations, and even the photographs
  • using always the corner to the right of the couch in front of the telly, the one under the painting where there is someone that looks so much like my Father, and hoarding all my possessions in that corner - books, sketchbooks, colouring pencils, collaging tools, embroidery thread, all in a little fabric basket
  • waking up early (because sleeping in is not worth it; it's always going to be equally as cold) and lounging in Tiare's sunbathing spot in the dining room before breakfast
jul 16 2012 ∞
jul 16 2012 +