The Everlasting Sandcastle
My place was right away inspired by Stephanie’s up-close sound: the tick-tocks of her clock. It reminded me of my grandma’s house when I was little. Her and my grandpa had this triangular black clock that the bank they were clients of gave to them. Nowadays this clock doesn’t work anymore, but the memories around it are the coziest and happiest of my life.
I live in a little city here in Brazil, where my grandma’s house was just blocks away. Because of this, I could smell the summer from her windows, and I can’t remember one single day where the sky weren’t blue as a dream. Inside the house, the predominant color was brown, but not that earthy brown, but the golden brown, like everything was sparkly and precious, like in a museum. The smell usually was something that grandma was cooking, the smell of fresh beans for lunch was the nicest, and it equals to me peace. My grandpa was usually with his glasses and reading something, probably stuff to pay, something he weirdly enjoyed doing while sitting in the bed, doing calculations and such.
In the guest room is where the magic happened. It was composed by two beds, one little table with a computer on, a swing, and a big window that lead us to other building. In that building, there were some old ladies that hated me and my cousins. We called them witches and many stories we lived had them involved, but little did they knew that. My older girl cousins, Beatriz and Clara, were my partners in crime in our daydream plays. Bea, the oldest one, was a Harry Potter addict. We pretended we were characters from the movies for hours. I was (sort of obviously) the French girl from the fourth movie, which the name I don’t know how to write. We flew in that room. We could be ANYTHING in that room. We were witches, vampires, dancers, spies. We felt infinite. Nothing and no one could stop us (even the adults interrupting by opening the door warning that it was time to take a bath or to eat). We went to sleep and still were daydreaming.
That house was life to me. It was a fort. It was so high and nothing could touch us. It is the root of all my thoughts and a weird but admirable way to live. Growing up can be very hurtful. Since we were kids, the ambiance we lived told us we could do anything, and now they tell us the opposite. But I won’t allow adulthood to change me, just to make me grow. That’s why maybe this was the place my mind wanted me to visit. How can we dream about tomorrow forgetting what made us who we are today?
—By Isabela A., 18, Brazil