Eons later, walking down the same street and turning around the corner to face a boarded archway, I thought that maybe I should leave this town. When I turned back, I could see the lighted windows of the living room up on the first floor of the yellow house. Years passed and I began my travels, further and further away until I settled on the other side of the globe. The yellow house became a symbolic picture, another clipping from my memory album. My mother presence alone in the apartment on the second story of the yellow house, made me feel safe. As usual she was waiting for me, now that my father was gone and I was just passing through, her waiting will be forever empty in the midst of bookcases, clothes, pictures, clocks, and a desk with an empty armchair.
