I went back home to the island and

I returned to the house of my childhood.

The house was woefully dilapidated. The paint was entirely stripped off and the grey wood was beaten mercilessly by the wind throughout the years.

The old, wooden house crooked treacherously to one side, as if it was about to fall off of the four concrete posts that it was built upon.

But yet

I entered the house of my childhood.

The walls are bare. There is a patch of grass growing in one corner.

I explore the house of my childhood.

Every door I open, and every crevice that my eye falls upon causes a sound that barely registers in my ears. A faint sound.

Echoes of our childhood laughter. Echoes of me, and Banjay and Trenton runnin arong pon dee grass. Runnin chrew de grass and playin in dee island sunshine.

I left the house of my childhood with naught but echoes.