It will always be my house no matter what I'm supposed to write in the address box but I guess it’s no longer my house, it’s yours, but it’ll always be mine

When you walk inside the house from the door that connects with the garage you can see a bright blue bedroom on the other end of the house. That's where I left tears stained into the floor when the boy I liked turned out to like my best friend instead. It’s the room where I feel asleep with the biggest smile on my face because I knew when I woke up the next morning the living room would be filled with presents. The room where at some times was so dirty there was a path from the door to my bed because the struggle of finding the perfect outfit every morning resulted in wrinkled clean clothes covering the floor.

The bathroom down the hall has a giant cabinet under the sinks. My mom claimed that we were supposed to keep towels there but more often than not you could find my little brother there trying to scare first thing in the morning while you’re brushing your teeth.

The bright orange room attached to the house probably still echoes of laughter from late nights with my best friends. Sleeping on the pull out couch become almost a weekly routine sometimes during the summer. There used to be a trampoline in the backyard, you could even find us out there at one or two in the morning if we were bored enough, regardless of how many layers we had to put on to stay warm.

The front steps are missing a railing because my best friend ran into them while playing kickball in the front lawn. Standing there is where I had my first kiss. There were two railings at the time and it’s a good thing or I would have probably fallen into the flower bed.

I’m surprised the corner of the kitchen counter doesn’t have a permanent imprint of my butt because I spent hours sitting there having life talks with my mom as she cooked dinner.

The living room was painted yellow and pink about 8 years ago, it took my mom almost a week to finish it all, I remember her yelling at me for walking under the ladder saying I was going to have seven years of bad luck (I didn’t, but that would explain A LOT).

There was once a treadmill in the corner of the living room which was used for about two weeks for exercise. The next five years it collected dust and was never touched again.

It’s the same room where not a year later I hugged my sobbing brother because he found out grandma went to heaven.

And not two months after that did I hold that same brother, in the same room as he screamed at my parents telling them he just wanted to say goodbye to his best friend. We were laying on a dog bed because when we came home from school we learned we no longer had a use for the bed as we were now without any pets.

It’s the house where on any given Sunday morning you could find all the windows open and my mom blasting Sweet Caroline from the kitchen while cleaning.

The house where my dad would come home from work to find all the doors open with the A/C blasting and he'd yell at us because we didn’t live in a barn.

My parents room was the place to be when we were younger. But it was also the place where we came home from vacation to a half eaten rabbit on the floor. The room where every morning at 6:48 my dad was standing at the window hitting the automatic start to his car because winter in Upstate NY is brutal.

The driveway is cracked all over but has been written in chalk up and down the entire stretch.

All these memories, good, bad, ugly, insignificant at the time they were happening but I hold so true to my heart now.

So blast Sweet Caroline, sit on the corner of the kitchen counter, use every color of chalk in the box, play catch in the backyard with your dog, kiss on the front steps, leave the windows and doors open, laugh until you cry, cry until your stomach hurts. Live and embrace life.

I know I don’t live there anymore, so all I ask is enjoy that house. It may be small and far from town. But it’s home. Treat it well and love every second living there.