Walking into a happy home

Walking into a home I sometimes ask myself this question: Is this a place where I want to play? Or not?

I remember when I was five. I was often playing with a female neighbor who was six. When I was invited to her house, which happened once, it seems like, I found it very hard to play there.

Her parents were as alive as two garden statues. The home was tidy but dead.  Later in life I have thought about them. Did they laugh at all? Did they show affection to one another? Was this possible in a house as dead as this?

Being a young child I think you immediately pick up what kind of a house you walked into. I didn't feel safe there, I remember. And I was a child who felt safe in most places.

The happy houses are still there. The dead houses are still there. I can still feel them.

Today when I walk into a dead house I feel this urge to play anyway, just to show that it is possible. I sometimes do, protested by they who live there. They frown upon play, I guess.

And the happy houses are the best! You can breathe in them and you feel like you can do whatever you want without fear of punishment.

Tunedal 3 oct 2006