the first atelier

Walking past " l'atelier" where I lived the first ten years of my life,I was pulled by a magnetic force of nostalgia and memories.
On the street side is my grand father architect studio, where men in suit drew lines with rulers, where the scent of amonia used to create blue prints was making me dizzy. Usually, front doors are locked now, and you need a code to get in.But the door was open,and I had a brief whiff of happiness. The place had been renovated, fresh paint gleamed, and my old romantic garret of childhood looked like it could live through more centuries of lives well lived.My parents, younger brother and I lived in the upper "loft space", a bare bone painter's atelier, with toilet but no bathroom, kitchen the size of a stamp,a wood stove chimey that my dad had to light daily in winter , bringing the logs from the cellar.....But it was charming, love and beauty prevailed, and the courtyard resonated with chirps.