This is the sole ‘street’ leading to my father’s wooden house where I was born 36 years ago. It was man-made by him and was originally a ridge or narrow raised path between rice fields measuring about 0.5 metre wide but he was able to widen it to 4 metres. The street is 150 metres long.
Located in front of the house is the granary where my father kept the newly-harvested rice before it was sent to the rice mill. But in the 90s, rice was loaded into lorries upon harvest. The granary also functioned as the storeroom for old copper and clay pots.
Now, here is the old, big, dilapidated wooden house where my siblings spent our childhood. My late mum moved into this house after getting married to my father back in 1959. He is the only heir to my paternal grandfather who had to wait for almost twelve years to get him. But I never saw my grandmother as she passed away when my father was only five years old. Meanwhile my grandfather lived up to the ripe age of 70. I was 4 when he drew his last breath.
Right now, my father only comes back to this house in the morning to do some gardening and cleaning before going back to his wife’s house in the afternoon. He never sleeps overnight here since he remarried two years ago. As for my younger brother, he stays at my house as he cannot bear living there alone.