Returning Home

I have no memories of the day I was born.

Like everyone else, I only know it through the memories of others.

Last night I slept in the room where I spent almost the first twenty years of my life. Every time I return, the house seems both familiar and different. The rooms have changed, the trees in the garden have grown, my father is gone, and my siblings now live in different parts of the world. But as I lay awake, listening to birdsong, dogs barking, the rustling of the trees, and the sounds of my mother's kitchen, I felt my childhood quietly returning. For a moment, I felt at home again.

Today is my birthday.

My mum always remembered the crowded maternity ward, the difficult labour, the warm July afternoon, and the fact that I had black, curly locks on my head. Every year, before wishing me a happy birthday, my dad glanced at his watch to remind me that it was 1:20 p.m. If we spoke after that time, he'd smile and say, "Ah, you've arrived already." If I called in the morning, he'd laugh and say, "We're still waiting for you." It was an annual ritual for me, and now I miss it.

When I think about these stories, I wonder how much of what I call memory is actually mine. Before I could remember anything, someone else remembered for me. My parents would tell me where I was born, what I looked like, who visited me, what scared me, and what made me laugh. Over time, they became part of my own memory.

I remember that many of the things my mum chose for me were yellow. Blue somehow belonged to my sister, green to my brother. As adults, we've grown to like other colours more, but still, when I see a yellow toothbrush or sandals, I think: Mum would probably associate that with me, and now I associate it with her.

Walking around the yard, I see how many of the places I remember from my childhood have disappeared, but I don't feel sad. I just feel that returning here is a gift.

It's not only a return to what nourished me as a child and a reunion with loved ones, but also an opportunity to remember where my way of seeing was born.

As I fall asleep tonight, I think of the words from Korczak's Kajtus the Wizard: "Life is strange. Life is like a strange dream."