As I stand on the cold, rotten wooden boards of a half-torn down rustic shack currently being used as storage for old tools and bales of hay, my imagination flickers to images of my grandmother's tales of growing up. My grandmother comes from New Zealand and ever since I can remember, I have listened to her stories of her childhood and living in a country that I have experienced only through photographs and my imagination. Now as I stand here, in the crumbling remains of the place that she once called home, I feel the impact that her stories have had on me.
Grandmother's stories are so vivid that being here brings my imagination to life. I can smell the wafting aromas of family dinners, of cold nights where a family of 13 can be seen huddling around the small brick fireplace- the life force of the family during the harsh season of a freezing winter.
I stand by the window looking through the shattered windowpanes that have collected dust and dirt over the years, imagining what winter would be like here, with the fierce climate of snow and frost.
As my grandmother continues with the tour of the remains that had once been home to her and 10 other brothers and sisters I am able to make out where walls once stood from the markings that are left on the floors like scars that stand as memories.
The remaining walls are a collage of spoiled wallpaper and rotted frames. The wallpaper is ripped and faded, tinted with murky colours of yellow and brown, It must be at least 70 years old.
The house is so run down and must not be worth anything, yet I see its value not in dollars but for its emotional and sentimental worth. While...