Perhaps the worst part about being here is unrelenting attack of memories. Every brick of this house, every wall, every scrap of random cloth has a story to tell. I take a towel out of the cupboard and I suddenly remember - despite myself - how I bought it from Sunday bazaar one day because it matched with my newly renovated bathroom. The bathroom my father had pretty-fied in response to my never-ending whining. I remember how I'd lock myself up with a bubble-bath and a book, and then had to face scolding from a family who never quite understood how I could spend so much time reading a book in the bathtub. I miss the scoldings. I miss the deep voice calling me up two minutes after my 11 o'clock curfew asking me where I am and why I'm not at home yet. I miss the booming presence, the comforting arms, the hug that would make me feel safe no-matter-what.