Every time I think of my childhood home, my mind goes right to the little, light-yellow house on the corner of the street located in a little town on the east side of Michigan. I feel a sense of comfort knowing that a place so little holds an exuberant amount of memories. 

I remember the exact scent, feelings, and love I felt while living there. 

On that peaceful, lively street filled with numerous support systems and genuine people, there was a little girl that once held hope for the future. I was carefree, content, and ecstatic to be living my life. Chasing butterflies was what I did in my pastime—playing “house” inside the sizable treehouse that sat in the backyard waiting for kids to play in was a daily activity. The treehouse was my favorite place. I would always feel a sense of freedom when standing on top of the old, plastic but stable picnic table overlooking the neighbors’ backyards scanning for kids to play with. This was my only responsibility at the time. I was so little and innocent.

I was just a kid.

Everyone in my neighborhood was so welcoming to one another and always lent a hand to me and my family. When I would have a tough practice or chaotic day at school, the home was where I wanted to go— even though I was barely there due to my busy practice schedule. Every time I was able to relax at the house, I would watch TV or head to the basement to practice my gymnastics skills on my beam or bar.

My whole life was surrounded by friends, family, and sports. Occasionally, I would play with dolls, but I was outside occupying myself a good majority of the time; there were always activities to do. 

Waking up every Sunday morning to the smell of cinnamon rolls being baked in the white rustic-like oven was heaven, and watching the sunrise through my window was therapy. Sitting by my bed sat a fancy but casual dress waiting for me. While proceeding to get ready for church and putting on a different dress, Sunday rituals are one way to put it, but I loved it. Running onto the hardwood floor that covered my parent’s bedroom and jumping on them attempting to wake them up was the cherry on top. 

To say that I bloomed immensely in this house would be an understatement. By experience, growing up in the house known as the party house was fascinating at times. We would always host holiday parties and have multiple kids over at once. Me, being a social butterfly, loved every second of it. However, with older kids always around made me more mature and less dependent on others. I would clean up after others when needed and act maturely; I would not throw temper tantrums. 

At the end of the day, the yellow house on the corner of the street will forever hold a special place in my heart. From my dad adding on the addition to the house himself to building the treehouse and barn, I can say that as a whole, the house was built out of passion and love. Driving past the house now, I feel nothing but heartache. It is not the same, as the treehouse has vanished and the trees have been chopped down. To make myself feel better, I remember that once upon a time, my best memories were made in that house, and all I can do is smile knowing that it will always have a piece of me: my childhood.