Tapestry

 Our family home stood for over 450 years, thick walled, sturdy, and patiently holding generations of laughter, arguments and whispered secrets. In the mornings, sunlight spilled across the jewel-shaped lawn, catching on hibiscus petals so red the front yard appeared to crown the house. The house glowed from within, proud of its age, alive with the lives lived within its walls.

At its heart was a courtyard open to the sky — a quiet square of light that tied the house together. Rain would fall straight into it, sunlight would spill across its floor, and at night we’d lie on our backs, tracing constellations through the hollow above. It was the house’s breathing space, its open heart. My grandfather spent his afternoons there, in a worn cane chaise chair facing the courtyard. He’d sit quietly, watching us play — his presence steady and calm amid the chaos of running feet, shouted games, and cousins tumbling over one another. I have wondered how many generations of grandparents the antique chaise had seen. 

Each summer, the house came alive like a loom in motion. Cousins arrived in swirls of noise and color, and every voice became a new thread. We ran through hallways sticky with mango juice, chased kites across the lawn, argued about ghosts, and fell asleep to the hum of ceiling fans and a gentle breeze.

Every morning, my father stood on the grand balcony — unhurried, waving as we left for school. His hand lingered in the air long after we’d turned the corner, as if willing us to have the best days of our lives, every single day.

The house itself wove stories without trying. The giant, sturdy, immovable furniture, the tinkle of unseen anklets in the night, the occasional sparrow that had made a home in an unreachable high nook — each sound stitched itself into our family’s collective memory. We believed there was a secret passage connecting it to the sister house nearby. When the time came to bring the house down, we searched for it — brushing away dust and tears — hoping to find that hidden thread one last time.

We never did. But maybe the true passage was never underground — it was between generations, between who we were and who we became.

Now, the house is gone. The stern statue that gazed over the lawn, like a guardian of its heritage, remains. A lesser but equally loving balcony took the place of the grand balcony. But the tapestry remains — invisible, unbroken. It runs through us still: in my grandfather’s quiet gaze, my father’s gentle wave, the laughter of cousins scattered across the world, and the moon that once watched over us all as we giggled the night away as children.