The House on the Hill

I remember the house on the hill, the house with the green gate, the house we used to play in. I remember us in the house, living together as a family. It was our home for as long as I can remember.

I remember the backyard where you first taught me how to ride a bike. You held on to the the back of the bicycle and ran after me while I rode. I remember the wind in my face as I kept cycling. I remember how excited, and terrified I was when I looked back and realised that you were no longer holding on.

I remember the playground with the swing. I remember the walks in the park. You taught me the different names of each plant, each tree and each flower. I remember the little purple flowers that we used to pick and bring home to mom.

The house on the hill is still there. But it no longer looks the same. The green gate has been repainted, the walls knocked down. But I notice that along the pathway, are the same purple flowers we used to pick. I reach out for them and then, I stop. Something is not the same. Who will pick them with me, now that you’re gone?

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