I keep seeing that quote you know the one that says “I am not a whole person. A part of me died in the house I grew up in.” No one talks about the house you grew up in. Good or bad leaving that house was like leaving a very dear friend knowing I’d never see them again. I’d never walk those halls and smell cinnamon candles again. Never see the cracked wood on the base board by the back door where a very good dog always caught his chain on the way inside. Never go down the stairs in a sleeping bag with my sisters laughing behind me. Never sit on the roof and listen to the crickets chirp or stare at the stars for answers that I’d probably never have. Never hear the whispers of a little girl long forgotten or a grandmother telling me to stop running before I fall. No one tells you that once you leave that house the bad memories fade out and you’ll beg to be a child again running through those halls fighting dragons and finding new ways to race down the stairs and win every time. I miss that house sometimes…
