Dear Mr. Real Estate Agent,
Welcome to my humble abode.
I never want to leave it, even though inevitably, some day, I will have to.
It smells of the most peculiar fragrance, a mix of sweet spices and baked goods.
The build is solid, having withstood almost every fearful climate change/weather condition.
'Almost' because no matter what seeps through, there's always, not 'almost always,' a cozy and warm ambiance intact.
The roof is in excellent condition; I feel secure. Sometimes, it's almost like it breathes, the thumps of its heart soothing to the ear.
'Ha,' I laugh.
You blink twice with a blank stare, but if you hear the alarm beeping, no worries, it's as if the house is a horse, its wary ear always perked up, beckoning for 'peace' at once...
And peace is guaranteed to be restored.
I challenge you to try, with your utmost experience, to put a price on this house because no real estate agent has succeeded yet.
"£260,000?" you ask.
I implore you to try again.
"£400,000?" you ask.
I'm on my knees begging you to try again.
"£1 million? 1 billion?"
I shake my head.
You wave an imaginary white flag.
How could you ever put a price on the home within my mother's arms?
Sorry Mr. Real Estate Agent, but you will find no business here, even after I have grown out of it.
P.S. I am now in my mother's shoes and my little Amina reminds me every day how it once must have felt like to be in my mother's arms. Try hammering a 'For Sale' sign into them...I dare you.
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| My mum, me and my daughter, Amina Amelia Chowdhury |
