As the reunion drew to a close, I couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment and pride. Our family had come together, overcoming years of distance and misunderstanding. But I knew that this was just the beginning. To ensure that our bonds remained strong, we had to create new traditions and memories that would carry us into the future.

I proposed an idea to my family: a yearly reunion, each time at a different location, to celebrate our shared history and create new experiences together. The response was a resounding yes, and we set to work planning our first destination reunion.

Next week will be part 7 so stay tuned.

The key they had given me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like home… The walls and roof were still the same. The baby blue outer wall had faded a bit and looked more like the sky covered by those misty clouds up high and the red rooftiles were partly covered by moss and not as shiny as they used to, but it was easy to imagine what the house look like all those years ago.  The door creaked as I pushed it open. The hinges haven’t moved in years and first appeared to not want to be awoken from their slumber, but my force was stonger.  I stepped in, pulling the door shut behind me, the hinges still complaining but resisting this second movement less.  Tears welled in my eyes as I saw the house I used to call my home just the way I left it. Even my favourite red jacket was still hanging there, though its color barely visible under the thick layer of dust. Slowly I walked through every room, taking in all the details. It still was just as I remembered. But it felt wrong. I felt wrong. Like an intruder in this sleeping house. Like it had exiled me and now I was not allowed back. Except of cause that I WAS finally allowed back.

About 20 years ago, life was different. I was just a teenager back then, doing teenager things, having teenager problems. I lived with my parents in this house, the house I had lived in for all of my life at that point. I went to school, had my friends, nothing special. But then one day, everything changed. My parents followed the news, but I didn’t pay much attention to it. I knew that there was a war that started, that some countries didn’t get along. I’ve heard of new weapons they were using, but as I already said, I didn’t pay much attention to it. I was more busy with schoolwork and the teenager drama of the day.  I didn’t feel like any of this affected me until it did.

One sunny day there was an evacuation order. We had two days to pack up things and then we had to leave. School was canceled, but no one was telling us anything. Even the news was not giving details, just orders. Pack your things, as much as you can carry yourself, not more. Lock your houses and go to the meeting place. There you would leave behind your house key to be kept secure and then you will be transported to an evacuation center. Some people tried to resist, some didn’t give their keys away. Those were the ones whose houses now were owned by other people. But my parents did as we were told. I don’t like to remember that time and what followed in the weeks, months and years after. When the war was finally over we were told that the region we lived in had been contaminated. Everything still stands, but it must be cleaned before the houses can be inhabited again. Now, after many years, the cleaning has been completed, the area and buildings were finally safe enough to live in again. And everyone who back then followed the instructions were given their keys back. Thinking about it made me sad that my parents weren’t able to experience this day. They died some years back. First my mum, cancer, and then dad only a year later of a heart attack. Some people say he died of a broken heart. Only I was left. What am I supposed to do with this house that doesn‘t feel like a home anymore?

Sitting on my old bed I contemplated on what to do next. With receiving the keys to this house I had lost the right to live in the temporary housing I had spend most of my life in. Of cause there was a period of time I got to move, but ultimately I was supposed to move back into this house. I had to make it my home again. But could I? On the bedside table was a photograph of me and my best friend at the time. We got separated during evacuation and I hadn‘t seen them since. There was no way of keeping contact. I wondered if they had come back too, or if their family was one of the ones that didn‘t surrender their keys. Or maybe they had died? Maybe moved somewhere else? So many possibilities. Maybe I‘ll check their house later. 

I stayed lost in thought until I noticed that the light was slowly turning orange and the room was getting darker. There were still things I was supposed to check in the house during this first visit. We had gotten a checklist. Check the fridge and storage, make sure electricity and water are working, etc. So I did. The fridge and storage were empty. They probably had emptied them out after evacuation. Electricity seemed fine and water was running after some waiting and complaining of the pipes. No immediate issues. While doing all this I did my best not to get stuck in memories again and not to look at all the things that used to make this my childhood home. I tried to handle it like an unknown new home. But I couldn‘t shake the feeling of not belonging. After I checked everything of the list I stepped out of the front door and locked it behind me, but paused before I pulled out the key.  This time, I promised the house in silence, this time I won‘t abandon you. I will come back and I will show you what it feels like to be lived in again. You will become a home again. I promise.

The key they’d given me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like home. I pushed open the door and stepped through the threshold, a thin layer of dust covered every inch of a place I’d tried so hard to forget. “It's exactly as it's always been” I muttered as I stepped forward, the floorboards creaking under my weight. Memories I've locked away flickered through my mind as I walked through the living room and past the kitchen, I continued to the stairs and down a hallway that led me to a door. I stopped with my shaking hand on the doorknob, a knot welled up in my throat as my vision blurred. Letting go, I stepped away crumbling to the floor as hot tears poured down my face. I don't know how long I stayed like that before I got back to my feet, eyes still burning, tears still staining my cheeks, I swallowed against the lump in my throat with a deep breath I turned from the door "Nothing will bring you back to me" I whimpered then I ran from this place that kept me connected to you, I will fight to forget you. So, I do not have to relive the day you died.

The rusted key fits the lock like it always does, but the house no longer feels like home. My mind is fogged, and too many things have changed. It’s as if my memories were stolen from me by an unknown authority.

My dog Desmond is still chained in the back yard, left behind like always. He curls around himself as he naps, leaves and brambles catching in his long curly fur. Whenever I walked in, he would always jump on his legs and run as far as his chain will allow him. Now, he doesn’t move an inch.

The stench of burnt wood mingling through the walls from the untouched foundations remains. As soon as you stepped foot inside, it would travel with your every step. It’s at its strongest in the bathroom.

When I venture inside, the changes within it unfold before me. The tiling is patterned with black hexagons ordered into neat diagonal rows instead of the dirty white squares. The counter is a dark obsidian instead of its original chipped quartz. I run my fingers against the shower curtain, now a dark navy blue. The smell remains, but now it’s mixed with something foreign. Rotten, with a hint of decay. I do not worry about the overwhelming unfamiliarity, because voices drift in. Voices of my family.

“Make sure to put the ice cream in the downstairs freezer!”

My mother. She looks much shorter than she used to.

“Can’t we put it in the one up here?”

My sister. Her hair is a different color, dyed a dark blue.

“No, we can’t. It’s broken, remember? We’re using the one in the basement until it’s fixed.”

My father. He’s wearing glasses now.

Jars rattle, paper bags crumble. I enter the kitchen and ask, “Hey, guys. Back already?”

The routine restocking of food does not cease. My sister’s head still arches downward toward her phone.

“Hello? Earth to family?”

My father brings in the last of the bags. “Where did Jaime go?”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I’m right here!” My hands reach out to his, hoping to firmly grasp him, to make him see me, but they fall through. Like stones to water, I’m slipping through his skin and bones. “Hey!”

“I’ll go check his bedroom. He might be asleep,” my mother suggested. Her eyes glaze with worry, a look I begin to fear. She rushes to my room. Slippers hurriedly scuff against the floor.

“Sweetheart,” she knocks gently on my bedroom door, closed tightly the way I always have it.

“Mom, I’m right here!” I say. “Turn around!”

She ignores me. With nervous hands, she turns the doorknob.

Then, a scream.

My father and sister rush to her side, letting out cries of anguish and despair.

I look over their shoulders, and cry with them, even if I am not heard.

A head of curly black hair peeks from under my bed. Pools of blood surround it, as if aiming to drown it. The rotting smell from the bathroom returned stronger, more pungent. It curled around my nostrils, begging me to come closer and explore further.

I step forward, and the memories flash before me. That moment was the only chance I had at finding out who did this. It was fleeting, too much for my brain to organize into one concrete timeline.

I turn to my neighbors house.

With the photo albums in hand, I began my journey to reconnect with my family. My first stop was my older brother's house. As I knocked on his door, I couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation and anxiety. The door slowly creaked open, revealing a weary face that once radiated joy.

"What brings you here?" he asked, his voice heavy with the weight of the years. I held out the photo album, my heart pounding in my chest. "I thought we could take a walk down memory lane," I said, mustering a hopeful smile.

We sat in silence as we flipped through the pages, each photo a testament to the love that once united us. Tears welled up in my brother's eyes, and he looked at me with a newfound understanding.

"We have to bring the family back together," he said, his voice filled with determination.

The key they gave me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like a home. I pushed open the door and stepped inside, greeted by familiar sights and sounds that now seemed distant and cold. The rooms that once echoed with laughter and shared memories now lay silent and empty.

I wandered through the hallways, tracing my fingers along the walls that had witnessed our joys and sorrows. Photographs hung on the walls, frozen moments capturing smiles that had long faded away. The furniture stood as silent witnesses to the passage of time, their once inviting comfort now feeling foreign and unfamiliar.

I made my way to the heart of the house, the kitchen, where the aroma of home-cooked meals used to linger in the air. I ran my hand along the countertop where we had gathered for family dinners and heartfelt conversations. The empty chairs now stood as a stark reminder of the absence that filled the space.

As I climbed the stairs to the bedrooms, memories flooded my mind, each step echoing with the laughter of children playing and the whispers of late-night conversations. The rooms that once held warmth and comfort now felt hollow, their walls seeming to whisper tales of days gone by.

Standing in the empty hallway, I realized that the key may still unlock the door, but the true essence of home lay in the intangible memories and emotions that had once filled these walls. The house may have changed, but the echoes of love and life that once dwelled within its confines would forever remain in my heart. And with a heavy sigh, I turned and walked out, carrying with me the bittersweet memories of a home that was no longer mine.

As the school year ends, us students have our free time

Back, a time where we

Can sharpen our minds and put our creativity to the test, play in the

Dangerous spots, swim in the hot summer h-

Eat, and do whatever, or just stay alone if you pre-

Fer that; many kids have different wants, but you do whatever’s

Good for you, we don’t care, I sure know

I don’t, so sit and your room and tell yourself sorry

Jokes about sadness and insanity, turn your

KISS records up, be as

Loud as possible, don’t bother annoying

Mom or dad, they lost their ears; do whatever you

Need to keep you from being an

Optimist, keep being pessimistic,

Play the bass, the guitar, play with your

Qwerty keys and smash them for an added effect,

Relish the sound of

Silence, keep it that way, be alone and

Tired of it, who cares if yo-

Ur friends are busy? Check yourself in the mirror, be

Vain, narcissistic, admire yourself and ignore the emptiness and embrace the absence of

Warmth, bottle the

Xenacious feeling for people, and isolate

Yourself, be whiny about it, but don’t be over-

Zealous. It’s just the summer break.

Oh, I see! My apologies for the misunderstanding. Here's a possible continuation of your story:

"As I wandered through the dimly lit corridors of the once-bustling mansion, memories of past celebrations flooded my mind. The laughter, the music, and the warmth that once permeated every inch of this place now seemed like a distant dream. But I refused to let the darkness consume the legacy of my family.

I knew the road ahead would be difficult, but the love I held for each family member fueled my determination. One by one, I would reach out to them, reminding them of the bonds we shared and the joy that awaited us if we could mend our broken connections.

My first step was to find the family's old photo albums, stashed away in the attic like forgotten treasures. Each picture was a portal to a happier time, a reminder of who we were and who we could become once again."

The key they'd given me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like home. I thought about walking in to go look around. It didn't take long for me to debate, so I walked inside. Everything looked the same but it just didn't feel right. Everything was still the same as it was when I had left, nothing changed. I walked over to her room, I instantly started crying. I miss her being there asking me how work was, how I slept, or if we were doing anything special. I didn't move away from her room, didn't answer anyone anymore, and lost myself mentally and physically. I wish I had more time with you mom.

The key they’d given me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like home. I’d been away a long time, so logically there was no reason for it to be anything more than a house I once lived in. A house that had captured my childhood and locked it away. Yet as I wiggled the key in the lock, its reluctance to give way a mirrored how I was feeling inside. I felt the tears come. Maybe from loss, maybe from remembrance, maybe from what had never been—but was still somehow wanted.

The house itself was a simple two-bedroom shotgun house and was in remarkably good shape given its years of abandonment and neglect. Moss grew on the edges of the north facing windows. The shrubs on either side of the front door were wild and unruly reaching out in all directions desperate for connection. I understood that.

When I stepped into the living room—the darkness swallowed me. Darker than I remembered. It took my breath and wouldn’t give it back. It was early afternoon the brightest part of the day. Yet this darkness was thick and heavy and all encompassing. I fumbled in the plastic grocery bag for my cellphone and turned on the flashlight and slowly swept the room.

I saw not only the debris of passing squatters: beer cans, cheeto wrappers, cigarette butts, broken candles, hair and dust, old socks, a watch cap. I saw my little brother Tommy when he was about three. I saw his perfect golden skin, the way wisps of light brown hair framed his face. He was squatting on the floor, his matchbox cars all lined up, the teddy bear he had inherited from me propped against the bottom of the sofa. My mother had been so proud of that sofa—not new—but new to us and in far better shape than anything we had ever had. I saw my mother’s legs as she sat in the wooden rocker my gramma had give us. Just her legs—torn from a larger memory.

It was a happy memory and it pleased me—rare as an angel’s eyelash. I hadn’t even known it was there.Tears fell gently down my face like a Spring shower. My gramma used to tell me that tears were God’s blessing. They let out all the big emotions: rage and saddness, grief and frustration, love and joy—so they couldn’t overwhelm us and take us down. I didn’t understand it then. I think I understand it now. Gramma was the beginning and the end. I miss her. I loved her and I hated her. It all bubbles together in the cauldron.

From the living room there was a short hallway that lead directly to the kitchen. One small bedroom on either side. One for my brothers and me. The other for my mother and her friends. My mother had a lot of friends. Temporary friends, I realize retrospectively, but abundant. I didn’t open the doors to the bedrooms. I wasn’t ready for that and depending…. I might never be ready.

I aimed the cellphone light directly down the hall to the kitchen and quickly realized it was unnecessary. I’d forgotten how much natural light came from the two windows in the kitchen. The doorway to the kitchen still held the hinges from a door that had been there when we were all children. It had a hook lock, high on the door so we children couldn’t reach it. A hook that was necessary, my mother said because food was constantly going missing.

The brickwork linoleum was the same as I remembered it. It always looked old and and dirty. There was no stove only a gap in the cabinetry where one had been. We had a stove. I remember that. It never worked. My mother stacked the can goods she got from the church ladies on top and shoved dirty dishes and clothes in the oven when she heard them knock on the door. My mother rarely cooked. She and her friends were always busy, but we children became adept at using the hotplate and the Hamilton Beach 2-slice toaster. It was mostly me and my older brother Eugene who did the cooking. Tommy never got old enough to try.

A very old fridge remained in the kitchen. It could have been the same one I remember—but more likely it was the same vintage. The doors stood open and fortunately there was precious little rotting or moldy food in it.

Off to one side of the kitchen was a lean-to addition which was the bathroom. A sink, a toilet, and floor drain shower. Precious little insulation. In the winter the pipes would freeze and several times over the years the pipes burst and we had to shut off the water to the whole house until one of mother’s friends could be persuaded to fix it. We often went months without running water in the house. Using instead gallon milk jugs which we filled at the Texaco three blocks away.

I was suddenly exhausted. My legs felt wobbly. I was shaky and weak. I stepped out of the bathroom, one hand against the wall for support and made my way through the kitchen and out the back door to sit on the cinder block step. My chest felt tight. Air unable to get in or out. Yet it did but just enough. I reached into my plastic grocery bag that held pretty much everything I took with me from the State Hospital and brought out a half back of Marlboro Reds (my first real luxury in years) and a bic lighter the cab driver had given me. I was almost too weak to light the cigarette—if you an believe that. Finally after four or five attempts, I got it lit. I was too eager. Took in too much smoke, coughed and sputtered and hacked until I was sure I was going to die. It hurt. My lungs and throat. The beautiful pain of it. The chaotic body response. This, not the house, was my home.

What I couldn’t work out at first was why the house was down to me. Why would anyone leave anything to me? It seemed off. I spent the rest of the afternoon on the cinder block step, smoking and thinking, and smoking some more. It came to me quietly when my mind and body settled into the tobacco stupor that the house was mine because I was the only one left alive or released from an institution.

They were all free either in death or the sanitized walls of their respective wards. I had it worse. I’d merely exchanged one ward for another. Only this one was more terrifying. It reeked of secrets and was bouyant with memories.

I deserve this. I was the worst.

I wonder if the Texaco is still there. If they still sell cigarettes and let customers use their bathroom.