The watery rays of the gradually vanishing sun streamed in through the complex network of cobwebs on the mullioned living room windows. I threw the windows open, watching the sunrays illuminating the spirals of dancing dust in the air. It felt as though time stood still in the manor.
The last time I had been here, the manor had been an impressive structure. The walls were spotless; the house, grand. But now, after years of desolation, the manor was falling to ruins, retaining an air of its former, imposing self around it.
But it felt like it was the same fall breeze that had blown fifteen years ago, that blew the curtains in and breathed some life into the crumbling fireplace, bringing memories with it. And all of a sudden, I remembered those cozy winter moments by that very fireplace, snuggling into the now-moth-eaten armchair with a book. The fireplace hadn’t had flames in its heart since one and a half decade.
The grand staircase curved upward, its bannisters decorated with hangings of cobwebs and untrimmed ivy. Maybe the house was empty, but it was alive with memories.
I remembered the ringing notes of the piano; the chatter of life; the barking of our dogs; those thundering rains; those cold winters; those family dinners; the laughter; the comfort everything that made the house, a home.
A home, I thought, is alive. The family – and the family moments – are its soul. And a home without inhabitants is a house, and it succumbs to time, just as a dead body does. Which was what happened to this house – our house. It was empty. Nothing is permanent; the manor had yielded to time and nature. This emptiness was a testimony to how time had snatched life out of the house.
Time and nature – two of the most powerful forces of the universe. It is with time that nature provides, and with time she takes it back.
November, 2024
