Have you ever had the experience of leaving a place that you called home for a good number of years? A place you grew up in and had to leave for whatever reason. There is a profound, almost inexplicable feeling of peace that will fill your heart if you chance to enter it again. The home of my childhood, my parents' home, is just as special to me. In the family, we refer to this place as D-8 (its house and block number).

D-8 is a residence full of personality. For as far back as I can remember I have called it home. I have found comfort within its yellowing walls on many a worrisome day, solace in its quiet nooks, and have learnt the lessons of life under its shady trees. Each morning that I spent there, watching the sun rise over the garden, with every blade of grass adorned with glistening drops of early morning dew, brought with itself fresh challenges. All this and more made me realise the true essence of life.

D-8 is old, cosy, weird yet thoroughly loveable and homey. With faucets that leak, and windows that refuse to open unless you give them a mighty push, and cupboards that overflow with useless treasures (indeed, I found an old pencil case containing three incredibly beautiful dead butterflies!) and ancient A/Cs that rumble more than a Harley-Davidson, and last but certainly not the least, a desktop computer that behaves abnormally most of the time, D-8 is rather like a wizened, little lady with idiosyncrasies — and, of course, rich, welcoming warmth.

In one corner of this house is a room I initially shared with my sister and later had to myself after she moved out. The room where each dilemma was discussed or carelessly written upon a piece of paper, where I pressed roses into thick books just because it felt remarkably debonair at that time. The place I pretended to study in but rarely did, the room that harboured my secrets, my fears, my faults. I stand in front of the door and happily grin at my name etched into the woodwork, a feat accomplished nearly fifteen years ago. (I'm glad mum didn't notice that one!) I turn the knob, now blackened with time, half hoping to suddenly turn sixteen again.

A bed cover I don't recognise is stretched across a large bed and my old bed is nowhere to be seen. The blue carpet (which was admittedly stained with ink) has been cruelly removed to reveal unsightly mosaic tiles. Children's books sit on the study table that I once used to do my homework. I open a drawer that I remember belonged to my sister to find piles of neatly folded children's underwear and socks. Whatever happened to my room?

A generation has passed and the room I once called my own is now a spare room to be used when my sister's children visit D-8. The home is once more teeming with life and vitality, noisy children and, as Dad says, the pitter-patter of little feet. I open each cupboard to find new treasures belonging to a new generation (a dismantled toy airplane, a brand new remote control car and carefully stowed away Eid dough among them). I finally open the study cupboard and just when I've given up all hope of finding something familiar, I unearth a small, dusty black diary.

The memories come flooding back, as I turn page after page of the book and read my somewhat illegible scrawl. I smile sometimes, laugh outright at other moments and feel glum at others. This spacious yet cosy old house is still home, not just to me but to a host of other people too. I guess you can take me out of D-8, but you can't take D-8 out of me!