by Bee

To the Farmhouse- 4770 – Excerpt from Back to the Old House Zine 

There are people in this world who can move hundreds or thousands of miles away and may never think of their childhood home. Never look back. I can’t help it. I can’t stop looking back. I can’t stop cranking my neck around in an unnatural twist. I do not possess the ability to love someone, something, or anything so deeply and just go forward without hesitation. I will go when there is no other choice. However, I will never be the first to leave. I will always linger at the door or on the porch steps. 

Time has been my only enemy – and maybe nostalgia. 

To those who tell me I’m wrong for being so tender, I simply don’t agree. I used to think that made me cowardly or whatever you deem is the opposite of brave. I couldn’t go far without it tugging on the most sensitive space in my heart. 

I wrote poetry about this house, about how my brother was born in the back laundry room where my parents slept. It was about how I wanted to take him back, but the poem is gone, and the house is gone. He was not old enough to remember when we left. 

Eventually, I went back on my own – to find it abandoned by the tenants who lived there after us. The basement flooded, and our beautiful sunroom decayed. I found a dead bird on the carpeting and classic country wallpaper peeling. The tree was still standing, but the treehouse our father had built a forgotten ghost on its limbs. The dog kennel is long gone, and the rabbit hutch is rotten. Standing like a relic, the old well that was our table for tea parties. Not safe to go upstairs, so we stood outside and pointed, “That was my room! And Kaitlyn’s, and that room was for all the kittens and their momma’s.” Walking through the floor plan in my head in my 8-year-old body. 

We watched the house across the road crumble long before ours did, an omen of what was to come. When I went back, that’s what our house looked like. Crumbled. Forgotten. Damp and moldy. 

Some people have a childhood home to go back to. Some – or most – have parents. I have neither. Where do you seek comfort when you have nothing of the sort? Where do I mean when I say I want to go back home? 

Things I let go of -well, eventually, they all have deep grooves where I have clawed to hold onto. Ripping and tearing my fingernails out in most cases. 

And so what? 

I do scream. 

Why not. Why can’t I go back? 

I want to be small enough to crawl inside the rabbit hutch again.

Copyright Bee, March 2025. All rights reserved; this intellectual property belongs solely to Bee.

ABOUT BEE

Bee is a 29-year-old multidisciplinary artist from Canada with over 15 years of experience. Working across various mediums, including writing, textiles, printing, jewelry, and zine making. They have developed a unique and eclectic approach, and their art blends a wide range of genres, reflecting a passion for storytelling, design, and recycling as much as possible. With a long history of crafting personal and expressive works, selling and self-publishing when they can. Bee continues to explore the intersection of art and writing with a focus on imperfection – creating pieces that showcase both their diverse creative interests and experiences.

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