THe Veranda Wall

Memories are like an accumulation of short films inside our heads that shape our identity and sense of place.  Based on reality, but often tampered with - the mind unconsciously re-recording different versions of events on an old VHS collection we’ve had stored for years.  The scenery, however, is seldom meddled with - you either remember or you don’t.  There’s no benefit to changing the stained old mustard-coloured leather sofa to a plush olive velvet one. In fact, it’s the image of the jasmine tree climbing up the side of the wall of a white veranda that triggers the play button, transporting you…

[PLAY]

Tanned, wrinkled, slender hands delicately pick at white star-like blossoms.  One flower at a time, she weaves them into the plaits of her silvered hair.  When satisfied with her handiwork, she leans back with her legs stretched out in front, sitting on the parapet wall that surrounds the veranda, enjoying the rare Saharan breeze that brings in fragrant wafts of fig, mint and jasmine.  Below her outside are four children playing hopscotch - they’ve taken advantage of a small patch of concrete ground and, using chalk, have made it into their own personal playground, now covered in colourful floor games.  Her hand gestures towards them to quieten down before turning her head to gossip with the three old ladies huddled in the corner drinking tea. They’re sitting on a murky brown majlas on top of a lavish Persian rug. The rug, clearly an indoor one, is dragged outside when guests are visiting, its colours clashing drastically with the yellowish terrazzo tiles.  Still, it looks comfortable, unlike the one I’m sitting on nearby, my ankles riddled with red markings from the woven plastic foils. 

I remember now, noticing without realising it, that the interior of my grandfather’s summer farmhouse had become a labyrinth of unwanted treasures.  Nothing matched; there was no dialogue between the gold-framed landscape tapestry which hung against the peeling white walls of the entrance and the Italian mid-century iron deckchair that sat below it.  The house was like a cube of potter’s clay, slowly moulded as family members had taken to appropriating any spaces that were left ambiguous or undefined.  Grandkids carved out play areas, nooks were filled with books and various other things, and curtains were put up to hide away storage; it was a merry go around of furniture.  The imagination of spaces was endless, and we were all the architects.  On that day the veranda was a living room, on another an idyllic dining hall.  No room was safe from change. 

Now older, I find myself romanticising the details and imperfections.  Whenever I feel I’m losing a sense of my place in the world, I think of my spot on that scratchy mat, and the image of my grandmother; framed by the jasmine covered walls, roof and column, with the farm and bright blue sky as her backdrop.  That veranda wall was her throne - some territories are set in stone.