I love anniversaries of most kinds. Today it is three years since we moved into our house. Three years of happiness, tears and memories. I still remember the day we got to ‘see’ our house for the first time. I just loved it. In hindsight, having my dad with me on that day meant a lot. He was there to approve and bless us.

Every time I go on vacation or just a weekend trip out, I love the moment when we turn the corner and I can see my house. A thrill shoots up my spine. It is one of those repeatable happy moments. At odd times, I can see age creeping up on our house as well. The sambhar spots on the carpet. The turmeric spots that won’t wash off behind the stove. The numerous nicks and scratches on the wooden floor from the times I dropped the coconut from the kitchen island. Each line reminds me of an incident. The memories are etched into the walls, floor and the furniture surfaces. I wonder if the previous owners think of this home.

There are bittersweet moments too when I look at the nursery room done up in pista green with elephants and bears on the wall paper and the emptiness I feel inside and outside. The swing hanging from the deck rafters never to be used. The absence of toys strewn around the family room.

Then I look up at the TV and see images of homes burning down. I feel the melancholy of the people shown on screen and send up a prayer of thanks for all that I do have.

Anniversaries have a way of making me cry with tears of joy and sadness.