There is a house (technically, there's two houses) where my family used to live decades ago. The house where my grandfather grew up, where my dad took some of his wedding pictures, where we lived for a brief moment after my mother passed.
The houses are old, practically falling apart. And now it's time to empty them, since we've basically been using them as a very old and decrepit storage space. Two huge attics. I've spent the morning walking around and going through boxes and boxes of toys, books (so many hidden pearls), old photographs (first time I saw a picture of my great grandfather), and so many other things. It has the exact feel as something out of a horror movie; every single time I had to open a closet or a closed door I half expected a corpse to fall down on me.
But still it's history. My history. And I'm the only one left to keep it going. If I don't show an interest or if I fail to learn it, it will die. People in old pictures will be just people. Random strangers smiling at us. Names on letters will be just names and special objects will lose their meaning. I feel like Vergilio Ferreira in Aparição. And it's sad.
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