I visited my childhood home,
28 years after,
not because I missed my home,
but because I missed the version of me.
The rooms looked smaller,
the living room longer,
one single wardrobe,
sharing with my older brother.
The backyard was different,
gone was the water well,
sealed forever,
and the cotton tree,
stripped of its roots.
I stood at my bedroom window,
where I used to wait for the darkness,
for the power cuts to swallow up the street,
as darkness meant no books and study.
A table in the corner,
with a study lamp, burning bright yellow,
that had seen countless midnight,
under the hard working eyes,
of my brother.
I visited my childhood home,
because this home called me Putti,
the youngest in the house,
the apple of everyone\'s eye.
Standing near the gate,
I waited every evening,
for my father\'s return from work,
waiting for him to say yes,
for me to go play with friends.
Those were the days,
when I was free and loved,
without judgement,
without any responsibility.
I visited my childhood home,
not to see the walls,
but to re-live those moments,
to tell that little girl, you will be fine.
I visited that version of me,
when I lived a life
full of dreams and
endless wonder.