My house is made of memories


My home

I’ve spent my entire life in the walls of the house that lies on the hill. 

The house that the sunlight reaches from every direction, even though all the neighbors’ houses are shaded by the trees. The house that was filled with music and books and love from my mom and the unrelenting bickering between me and my three siblings. The house I had my first boy over in. The house I watched my childhood dog grow old in. The house I took my first steps in and the house that has given me all of my core memories to this day. 

This is the last year I’ll spend living in my innocent childhood home I could always rely on after a bad day. It is the last year I can come back from a long trip and sigh a sigh of relief when the tires of the car hit the dirt road, knowing I’ll be back in the comfort of my own bed soon. It is the last year with my parents. 

These walls hold much more than cabinets and fine china. To me, they hold laughter and sadness and every emotion that I’ve ever felt.

To me, my house always seemed like my own kingdom. My brother and I would play pretend all day in the summer sunlight while growing up frolicking around our acres of land. When winter would roll around, we would make the most epic sled jumps on the huge hill we were so grateful to call our home. 

These walls hold much more than cabinets and fine china. To me, they hold laughter and sadness and every emotion that I’ve ever felt.”

As I walk around my so-called kingdom, nothing feels the same anymore. The old wood planks that used to line our kitchen are gone. The cabinets are green now, not white. The playset I spent hours on when growing up has been removed, and all that’s left in its remnants are overgrown weeds. The driveway that I used to fill with chalk as I sighed at my older sisters using the blacktop as a tanning bed while I instead thought “how boring that must be.” Now, I find myself lying in the driveway for hours desperately trying to get a tan. Life is never linear; everything comes full circle. 

The last piece of my childhood seems to be the five-bedroom, four-bath house on Hunters Run that I can’t seem to let go of. 

Sure, I’ll have pictures and memories, but the second my parents move out, I can’t show my future children just how special this house was once to me. 

It seemed to catch me whenever I failed. It was an oasis away from all the evil in the world, and yet, my time left with it seems to be depleting by the day. 

So, whoever gets the pleasure of living in the gray house with white shutters that sits upon the hill basking in the sunlight, just know that houses’ walls are made with memories.