The Faded Yellow House
The gravel crunched under the tires as Maria's little hatchback pulled into the overgrown driveway. Sixty years of sun and rain had turned the once vibrant yellow of the house to a faded, almost ghostly cream. The mango tree, still stubbornly bearing fruit, leaned heavily to one side, its roots pushing through the cracked concrete of the front porch.
Rita, her sister, hopped out, stretching her arms. "Feels like stepping back in time," she said, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips.
Maria nodded, her gaze sweeping over the familiar, yet dilapidated facade. The paint was peeling, the window frames were warped, and the once meticulously trimmed hedges had become a tangled mess. "It does," she echoed, a lump forming in her throat.
They unlocked the rusty gate and pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest. The scent of damp wood and dusty memories filled their nostrils as they stepped into the cool, shadowed interior. The old floral wallpaper was faded and peeling, and the floorboards creaked under their weight.
"Remember when we used to race our bikes down the hallway?" Rita chuckled, pointing towards the long, narrow corridor. "Grandpa would always pretend to be the finish line."
Maria smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. "And we’d always crash into the pile of newspapers he kept by the back door."
They wandered through the rooms, each one a repository of shared experiences. The kitchen, where Grandma had baked her famous guava jam. The living room, where they had watched countless movies on the old, bulky television. The bedrooms, where they had whispered secrets and dreamt of their futures.
Outside, the guava tree still stood, its branches laden with fruit. They plucked a few, the sweet, tangy scent filling the air. “Just like grandma’s,” Rita said, biting into one.
Maria's gaze drifted towards the overgrown patch where the papaya tree used to stand. It was gone now, replaced by a tangle of weeds. She remembered the anticipation of waiting for the fruit to ripen, the sticky sweetness of the ripe papaya on their tongues.
"Remember my wedding reception here?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Rita nodded, her expression softening. "It was beautiful, Maria. You looked so happy."
The memory, though tinged with the sadness of her divorce, was still precious. The laughter of friends and family, the twinkling fairy lights strung across the porch, the music drifting through the open windows. It had been a perfect day, a fleeting moment of happiness in a life that had taken unexpected turns.
"It was," Maria said, her fingers tracing the rough bark of the mango tree. "Even though it didn't last, there were good times."
They sat on the porch steps, the silence broken only by the chirping of crickets and the rustling of leaves. The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the overgrown yard.
"What are we going to do about this place, Rita?" Maria asked, her voice heavy with weariness. "It's falling apart."
Rita sighed. "I don't know. Mom and the others are still fighting. Nobody wants to put in the money, but nobody wants to let go of the memories either."
The house stood as a silent testament to their family's fractured relationships. It was a symbol of their shared past, a repository of their happiest and saddest moments, and a burden they couldn't seem to shake.
As the last rays of sunlight faded, a sense of melancholy settled over them. The old house, with its peeling paint and overgrown yard, was a reflection of their own lives – beautiful and broken, filled with memories and regrets, waiting for a resolution that seemed forever out of reach. They knew they would leave again, back to their city lives, but the house would remain, a silent sentinel guarding the ghosts of their past.
Tessa Yusoff
5 March 2025
