Cave Paintings

We lived most of my childhood in a small apartment somewhere near the city center. Back in the day, at least in my childish mind, everything wasn't just bigger, but also much simpler. The sky felt bluer, summer was undoubtedly warmer, and because I'm from a tropical country, winter used to bless us with a lot more rain than it does now. Perhaps it was all in my mind, or maybe all of those beautiful memories were indeed true, and now I merely gaze at the world through shrouded grown-up filtered eyes.

I remember the rain was fun, and that mom would always bake something that would keep us all warm while we all watched my favorite movies together. I remember dad and his crazy yet perfectly fun ideas of how to handle my childhood. The amounts to which how much I miss him can never be fathomed precisely through any means... To miss someone the way I miss dad is to forever bear in your heart a wound that's poked daily by each and every thought of him.

"Go get your crayons. Hurry, before she wakes up!" He would say every here and then. I would run as fast as I could, and as quietly as possible, for if either of us were to wake mom up, the surprise would be done for. I remember how she loved those surprises. At first, she didn't care much for them. She even bought a gallon of white paint once and covered it entirely... Only to regret it a moment after. That was mom. Impulsive and reckless. And also the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I'm sure dad still agrees, wherever he is.

"Here, daddy! Here!" It was a magical moment that he and I shared some many times. We painted half the walls of that apartment, and it didn't look half as bad as you might be imagining. No, sir... Those were some fine art expressions right there. For the most of it, we would always end up drawing the same thing. Our family. Our bond. Our love. We were just like the cave people back in pre historical ages. We drew and painted about what we knew most. Maybe that's why mom felt so bad after she destroyed our very first work, but she got over it, and in some rare occasions she even took part in it, letting her artistic spirit run free... We were unexplicably happy, the three of us. Maybe that's why I came back.

I decided about a month ago that I should pay a visit to the old apartment back in my hometown. Back in that tropical country. Revisit some memories, and feel the air for its perfect harmony... So that's what I did. I took some time off, found a caretaker to stay with mom for a week, and bought my tickets. Guess that's why mom spent her life being impulsive; talk about feeling good!

There's not enough words to describe how I felt when I got off the plane, so I won't be spending a single line about how amazing it was to set foot in this town again.

Remember what I said about summer being warmer? I was wrong. Or maybe DiCaprio and three quarters of the world's scientists are right. Go figure...

I had an old friend pick up from the airport, and as we drove along, I was astonished at how the city grew and developed, yet ultimately all I truly cared about was revisiting the apartment. Revisiting our walls. That was the sole purpose of my trip. To revisit one single aspect of an entire life. One single feature which unquestionably had the power to make me feel everything I used to back in the day. Sure, call me crazy. See if I care.

We drove for about forty minutes before we arrived at the old apartment building. My friend asked me if I wanted her to come along. I said no, and I don't know why. The truth is that I felt lonely, but I didn't want anybody else to feel my loneliness. It was something that I felt belonged only to me. Besides, if I could pick someone to go back into that apartment with me....

I rang the doorbell, and a young gentleman answered it. I kindly explained to him my situation, and of course he opened the door, otherwise I wouldn't have described him as a gentleman. We spoke briefly in the kitchen - the kitchen! Mom's bakery! My kitchen! Our kitchen! - before he led me into the our old gallery, the living room.

I don't ever remember having cried so much in my entire life. I was right there, exactly where I wanted to be, and I couldn't help but crying the world out of me. Why did it hurt so much? Why couldn't time have simply stopped back when we were careless artists painting white walls? Why did he have to go so soon?

I wished so hard that I could have walked into that space and felt exactly as I did back in those days of pure joy. But that didn't happen. And of course I was aware of that possibility... I just didn't feel like accepting it. I didn't feel like moving on. But now, after having set foot there, and calling life's bluff, I felt that a fraction of me was less incomplete. Why did it end? Because it was perfect. I had to see it for myself to understand that. I had to.

As I got up and wiped my tears in front of my terrified host, I actually found room for a smile on my face. Maybe it was a feeling of regret that was taking over me, or perhaps even failure. But ultimately I realized that it was none other than fulfillment. I had friends to take me around town for a week. I had my memories. I had his joy and creativity, and her love back home. I didn't have to feel as empty as those walls surrounding me...