I looked at it from my late father’s eyes and I was instantly horrified.
The walls that once lovingly sheltered many generations were now infiltrated with creepers. Mould grew on the limestone paint. Holes appeared between the rocks where elements had eroded the mortar that held it all together.
The years of neglect had taken a toll.
The door still had the hole for the cat my late grandmother once had. I wondered whether any of her progeny still lived here or if they, too, had abandoned the house of my ancestors.
I pushed the door to open it but it resisted as if I wasn’t welcome. So, I pushed with all my might and the door creaked open hanging on its hinges limply, resigned at its inability to save the crumbling house’s honor from the prying eyes of the traitor–the one who had left it behind to find a better life elsewhere.
The roof that kept me and mine under its protection from sun and gale for a hundred years had finally caved in, smashing every last memory of my childhood underneath. The last reminder of my past was now past saving.
Photo by Enovate Studio on Unsplash
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 
It is painful to see lovingly cared for places go to ruin over time.
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My ancestral home was torn down when I was 15. It was not fit to live in due to disuse. I never got to see the fabled place with 40 rooms and 2 elephants
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Wow. Sounds amazing.
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It is hard to see the homes of our ancestors as they deteriorate and also as they disappear. It will also happen with us. A hug dear friend.🌹💝
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India has a joint family system and traditionally many generations of children grew together in one home as a close-knit family and helped in the farm. Now, with people moving to cities to find better jobs, these old homes are abandoned. 😦
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Nice story.
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YEEEEEE!!! Thank you, Papa. I just posted a new story.
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