Painted over in layers of colour, each uglier than the previous and flaking from age yet again. Rust eats the screws in cracked concrete.
I lived here, but the home of my childhood isn’t mine, isn’t ours any more, and memory fails me. Was it ever homey?
My son tugs at my hand, impatient. “Come, Daddy,” and I wonder what he will remember in decades, when he has long left my home to build his own.
Written for Three Line Tales, Week 174