Our refrigerator finally departs. It was 26! It was a garish muroon or I think magenta. It was a shade I cannot name.It got that color because our kitchen has pink tiles and mom thought the contrast was good. Mom thinking about colors and how they will compliment each other was surprising enough. In my family, homes were only required to be warm, welcoming happy places. Colors and interiors werent thought as adding to the appeal of a house. The fridge ( I am now regretting not having a name for it ) was less than 5 feet high. It is the only one my house has seen and I saw until I moved out. We had it when I could barely walk. It was there when I started school. Mom would place our tiffins on it and I couldn't reach up to collect mine. Top of the fridge was a mysterious place on which a lot of things lay. It was mysterious by virtue of being inaccessible. We had it when I grew as tall as it. We had it till I could finally stand, my elbow resting on its top, chatting up with mom. We had it till I didnt have to peer upwards once I opened it. I had to bend down to peek! We had it for a quarter century and little more.During exams, last minute cramming would happen with me resting my back against it. Morning tea before I left for college each day would happen there as well. If it wasn't mom, it was the fridge we turned to for food. It always had something. It was well-behaved. I mentally go over all the "things" in my house. My house is the " HOUSE family head" and the fridge was one of the family members. It was 26. The sofas are 22 years old. The living room "showcase" is 23 years old. The black table is 26 years or more! The tiny stool is 27 years old. The kitchen cabinet is 20! The washing machine is 20 years old too! This house aint no home without them members.Me and my blog pay homage to my fridge that went without a name. I have busied myself naming the others.
