I miss the old days. I miss all of them, not just one in particular.
I miss watching the sunset and waiting for the night sky in my old house on the hill.
I was once a happy little girl in the old house on the hill.
And now it seems like forever since I was there for the last time.
The house is empty now. And so am I.
I remember the day I left.
I was fifteen. My father told me that we would come back anytime I want.
I believed him.
Actually, it took me three years to go back there.
I went there with my grandmother. And, as we were walking through the old garden, she told me to look at the trees. I took a look at her first and she was crying. Not a loud crying, but a silent one. She said that the trees seemed very sad…they were so lonely now. There was one specific that caught my attention. It was the old fig tree where I used to sit under many times.
I realized how much I’ve missed it. I still miss it.
Me and my cousin, we used to dress as superheroes, and he used to climb that fig tree and pretend he could fly. Eventually, he fell down several times. He even broke his arm once. But he was happy there as I was.
I was once a happy girl under a tree…believing in magic and casting spells with leaves, rocks and sticks…watching the setting sun over the hill…discovering constellations with my cousin on the summer sky.
I was once this happy girl.
Till one day, I don’t know, maybe I was too grown up already…or maybe the Summer ended and my father said that we had to leave….
We had to leave the house on the hill…the old house by the lake where my uncle taught our dog how to swim.
And so we left.
It was a Saturday of a random weekend in one of the first days of October. I’ve had just turned fifteen.
My father said that we were ready to go (were we?)…that everything was already gone.
He meant that we had already carried all the things from there to the new house…but for me, it meant exactly that… everything was really gone…
My childhood. The magic. The summer days. The stars, the moon and the sun.
The house to where we moved to, it wasn’t that far. It was, in fact, only 20 kilometers away, but, I don’t know why, I was feeling like I was moving to another country.
Our dog died a few months before we left.
He was too old, or maybe he already knew that we had to go, and so he didn’t want to wait to that moment.
He was always a good friend. My good friend.
I’ve never cared about an animal, nor dog nor cat, as I cared about him.
I used to take pictures of him.
I still keep one. He is still young…healthy…strong and with an amazing hair. He is sat on the ground in the middle of the garden between the trees and he is staring at the camera.
I swear he is smiling on his own way.
I had more dogs after him, but they could never replace him.
He died on an afternoon on a hot day of July.
His death was the prelude to the ending of all the things that made me happy.
