Our Yeah | #WattPride (Completed)

House Tour

Peter and I went into the living room first, because he's come accustomed to the front yard seeing as though we ate there for breakfast a while ago.

Our slippers glazed through the ceramic floor as we went inside the front door, the silence inside this room is eaten by the sound of our stomping, as it echoes through the hundred and twenty year old walls built by my great grandfather as a gift for my great grandmother – their own home, which became a family heirloom.

I showed him the carved butterfly on the cobblestone fireplace that was placed by my dad when I was six. I still remember that day.

Dark skies, gloomy weather and the air so damp around the house it was a bit irritating. The rays of the fire glistened around the dimly lit living room as we all gathered there for the day, preparing for a blackout, which commonly occurs during stormy days.

This was the scene: Rebecca's adored hot coco ready at the table, a good book waiting to be picked up by mom to read to dad and I, and candle lights already lit and strategically placed around the room. Good books progressed as I got older, like from Charlotte's Web then Harry Potter up to The Notebook.

Stormy days are magical days in this house no matter how old I get.

I was trying to draw the butterfly myself in the very same spot the carved one was on, but then Rebecca always cleans it the next day, so this particular moment in time, six year old me asked my dad if he could carve a butterfly at the fireplace. I have to admit, it took a little effort of convincing, but he gave into my plea nevertheless.

That's how this fireplace got the carved butterfly, like a tattoo, more or less permanent, or at least as permanent as a carving on a cobblestone can be. My dad wanted it to be a tradition as well, so I was tasked to do the same when my child turns six, to carve something my kid wanted on this very fireplace.

"An heirloom within an heirloom. That was nice of your dad to do that for you." Peter smiles as he inspected the carving a little closer.

"Yeah, it was." I say almost in a whisper. I looked outside. My dad was in clear view, reading his morning paper still. He really is nice whenever he can.

Next, I showed him the kitchen, where Rebecca usually cooks her daily fares. There's nothing much to see here, other than the room almost always reverberates with the smell of good food at least three times a day.

Of course he knows the dining area. I just showed him the art that hung around in this room – just a bunch of street art that my parents thought were lovely to have hung in the dining area and so they did – then we proceeded to go upstairs. He already knows my room that is also connected to another bedroom which is the master bedroom – where I slept last night. I showed him the upstairs bathroom, then my parents' bedroom and led him back downstairs.

We don't have an attic I told him, but we have one in our other home when it's not summer or winter.

He just nodded.

I took him to the backyard next, again, nothing much to see, just inches of grass and a ten foot wall. Then we went through the gate that connects the back to the front yard.

This was livelier than the backyard. Birds chirping, the sun glistening its rays through every leaf, the vibrant smell of tulips escaping the air around us, and the bright color of the newly planted marigolds adds the right amount of yellow, orange and red orange in mom's garden.

"Smells heavenly" He spoke. Heavenly? Yeah, I guess that adjective works too.

I chuckled as a response. I do adore the smell of mom's garden as well.

And in no time at all we're back where we started.