The House That Built Us

This house may not look like too much to you, and I can understand that. 

Because what you can't see is the upstairs closet where I wrote the family name in pure black sharpie, or the door in the kitchen with mine and all my cousins heights listed with all of the progressions over the years. You can't see the kitchen my grandparents used to dance in, or the antique spoons my grandma had hung on the wall of the dining room. You can't see the green shag carpet. You can't see the stairs in the back of the house that us cousins were always afraid of, and tried to see who could walk up into the darkness the farthest. You can't see the play room. You can't see the fireplace, arranged with mismatched stones. You can't see my grandpas breath savers sitting next to his blue chair, or the candies he used to sneak to me that looked like orange peanuts. You can't see the kitchen table where I used to slip cards through the cracks just to hear the parents giggle. You can't see the people who made that house a home. So I understand how this doesn't look like much to you. But boy, this was everything to me. 

Sometimes I go stare at this house. This last time was the first time in a while, and I found myself start to panic when I couldn't place in my head where one of those side windows belonged. The realization of the time since I've stepped in there set in.  It has been a little over 5 years, and so much has changed. With me, and with this house. This house the once was red. The house has had a makeover, and hopefully, I have too (don't go look at pictures of me from the beginning of sophomore year, I'm still flirting with the awkward phase at that point).

The only thing that's the same of me and 314 W. Park Place are our hearts, and this house has such a good one. A big part of mine is still there, and I'm okay with that.