Hello SilverBloggers community!
This week I’m joining the Chronicles weekly prompt (week 41), a topic that immediately took me back to a place I carry with me every day… the home where I grew up.
Source Pixabay
There are places that never really leave you. You can move far away, change cities, even change your life completely… but some spaces remain intact somewhere inside you.
For me, that place is the house where I grew up.
I was the youngest of three siblings, the last child of my parents' marriage. Life, as it often does, continued writing its own story later on, and my father had another son many years after. But back then, in that small town in Matanzas, it was just us—my parents, my siblings, and that humble wooden house that held everything we were.
It wasn’t a big house. It wasn’t fancy. It didn’t have anything that people would call luxury. My father built it with his own hands, piece by piece, with effort and sacrifice. You could see that in every wall, every corner, every imperfection.
And yet, it was enough. More than enough.
When I close my eyes, I can still feel it.
I can smell the mornings—my mother in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. The sound of eggs frying in the pan was like a daily ritual, a signal that a new day had started. There was something comforting about that simplicity, something that no modern convenience has ever been able to replace.
Source Pixabay
During the day, the heat would wrap around everything. But at night, the temperature would drop, and the whole atmosphere shifted. That contrast is something I still remember clearly, like the house itself was breathing along with the passing hours.
That was the place where I learned the things that truly matter. Not from books or speeches, but from living. From watching. From being part of a family that did what it could with what it had.
I remember every corner of that house.
Even the small gaps that formed between the cement floor and the wooden structure when everything settled and dried over time. Those little imperfections became part of its identity… and part of my memory.
But if there is one place that stands out above all, it’s the small storage room—the cuarto de desahogo.
That was my world.
Every treasure I had ended up there. Old coins, random objects, toys, and even seashells I collected from the beaches during summer trips. It wasn’t organized, it wasn’t pretty… but to me, it was magical.
Source Pixabay
I could spend hours there.
Imagining stories. Creating worlds. Turning the simplest objects into something meaningful. That small room was more than just a space—it was where my imagination learned to exist.
That house didn’t just protect me from the outside world. It built me.
And even though life has taken me far from that place, a part of me is still there… sitting on the floor of that little room, surrounded by forgotten treasures, inventing stories without even knowing it.
Some places are never left behind.
Images: Pixabay
Translation: DeepL / Google Translate
📢 If you want to see my full process in real time inside Hive and Web3, I’m documenting it here:
👉 Daily Hive Journal 🚀
https://t.me/diariohive
There I share progress, mistakes, and results with no filter.
Hola comunidad de SilverBloggers!
Esta semana me uno al prompt semanal Chronicles (Semana 41), un tema que me llevó directamente a un lugar que aún vive conmigo… la casa donde crecí.
Fuente Pixabay
Hay lugares que nunca se van del todo. Puedes mudarte, cambiar de ciudad, incluso cambiar de vida… pero hay espacios que se quedan contigo para siempre.
Para mí, ese lugar es la casa donde crecí.
Soy el hijo menor del matrimonio de mis padres, el tercero de tres hermanos. Con el tiempo, la vida siguió su curso y mi padre tuvo otro hijo muchos años después, incluso con la edad de mi propia hija. Pero en aquel entonces, en aquel pequeño pueblo de Matanzas, éramos nosotros… y aquella casa de madera que lo era todo.
No era una casa grande ni lujosa. Era austera, modesta, hecha con las manos de mi padre, levantada poco a poco con esfuerzo. Cada tabla, cada detalle, llevaba algo de él.
Y aun así, no hacía falta más.
Cuando cierro los ojos, puedo volver allí.
Puedo sentir el olor de la cocina por las mañanas, mi madre preparando el desayuno. El sonido de los huevos friéndose en el sartén marcaba el inicio del día. Era algo simple, pero profundamente reconfortante.
Fuente Pixabay
Durante el día, el calor dominaba todo. Pero al caer la noche, el ambiente cambiaba, se volvía más fresco, casi otro lugar. Esa transición es de esas cosas que se quedan grabadas sin que uno se dé cuenta.
Allí crecí. Allí aprendí las cosas importantes de la vida. No de manera teórica, sino viviéndolas.
Recuerdo cada rincón de la casa.
Incluso los pequeños huecos que se formaban entre el cemento del piso y la madera cuando todo se asentaba con el tiempo. Imperfecciones que hoy, curiosamente, forman parte de los recuerdos más nítidos.
Pero si hay un lugar especial en mi memoria, es el cuarto de desahogo.
Aquel era mi universo.
Allí terminaban todos mis tesoros: juguetes, objetos curiosos, monedas antiguas, caracoles de las playas que visitaba en verano. No era un lugar ordenado ni bonito… pero para mí era mágico.
Fuente Pixabay
Podía pasar horas allí.
Imaginando, creando historias, convirtiendo cualquier cosa en algo importante. Sin saberlo, ese pequeño espacio fue donde aprendí a soñar.
Aquella casa no solo me dio un techo. Me formó.
Y aunque la vida me haya llevado lejos, una parte de mí sigue allí… sentado en el suelo de aquel cuarto, rodeado de pequeños tesoros, inventando historias como si el tiempo no existiera.
Hay lugares que nunca se quedan atrás.
Imágenes: Pixabay
Traducción: DeepL / Google Translate
📢 Si quieres ver mi proceso completo en tiempo real dentro de Hive y Web3, estoy documentándolo aquí:
👉 Diario Real en Hive 🚀
https://t.me/diariohive
Ahí comparto avances, errores y resultados sin filtro.
