Essay: Memories of the Old Home

After three or four years, I once again stand at the entrance to my old home. The faded Spring Festival couplets still hang on the security door. The wall paint is peeling, and the air smells musty, as if everything has returned to the past. The neighbor granny’s dog barks noisily, cooking fumes drift in through the window cracks, and the surrounding scenes are all so familiar. Only the person standing here is no longer the eighteen-year-old who thought the future could be as clear as a textbook.

As my fingertips touch the peeling wall, I suddenly remember that when I moved to the new house three years ago, I didn’t take any photos of this memory-filled place. Back then, I was only thinking about rushing into a new life, not realizing that some farewells require a sense of ceremony. I never expected that a space carrying twenty years of memories would one day make me nostalgic for even the mold stains in the corners. Now I finally understand why elders always reminisce about the past. It turns out that when a decade of time is compressed into a tangible scene, anyone would become a nostalgic storyteller.

I raise my phone and aim it at the rusty door. In the frame, the sunlight of 2025 intertwines with the dust of 2003. The scratches on the metal lock become clearer and clearer. As my fingertip gently traces the uneven grooves, I realize these scars record the passage of time more faithfully than any words.

The viewfinder trembles slightly. I see my own shadow overlapping with the teenager from ten years ago who used to twirl the keychain. The neighbor granny’s frying pan still sizzles, and the dog’s barking breaks the quiet of the hallway. In the flickering light and shadow, the upside-down “Fu” character on the security door gradually peels off, its fragments drifting away in the wind. These fragments, tinged with the smell of cooking oil, suddenly feel heavy.

It turns out that what proves we have truly lived is not grand narratives, but the patina on the doorknob, the pencil marks measuring height in the corner, the dust and rust accumulated in the door cracks over the years—these tiny fragments quietly emerge in memory, outlining the contours of time.