It’s just a house at the end of the street, on top of a hill. Covered by trees

It’s just a street. A driveway we rode our sleds down after the first snowfall. The woods we explored while looking for frogs, and hid from Ursula from the little mermaid.

It’s just a yard. It’s where we played badminton until we couldn’t see. It’s where I learned where to hit a home run, and how to pitch a fastball.

It’s just the doorway, where the “kissing stool” sat. It’s where mom gave us a hug and a kiss as we ran out the door to catch the bus to school. It’s the stairs we slid down all the way to the bottom.

It’s just a living room. Where we would lay on the floor with pillows and blankets to watch our Friday night Disney movies. It’s where we slept when we were sick. It’s where we hid during hide and seek, which was always behind the couch. It’s where we wrestled like siblings do (and where I always won.)

It’s just a kitchen. Where I learned that Hershey’s cocoa powder does not taste like chocolate. Where we made Christmas cookies every year for Santa Clause. It’s where we made homemade candy and made the whole house smell permanently like peppermint. Where we turned the floor into a slip and slide, hurrying to clean before mom got home.

It’s just a bedroom. It’s where I did my homework. It’s where I learned how to play the piano. It’s where I recovered from surgeries. It’s where I learned about life with amazing people.

It’s just a house. Its color has changed. It’s been renovated, updated and repaired. It's where you grew up. It's where you learned about life. All your lessons, beliefs, morals, were all learned while encased in those four walls. You take your home with you. Home is a feeling, not an object. It's a house, a house that built me.