While I can’t say that my high school years played out stereotypically— in fact, quite the opposite— I can say that I ultimately established roots in a home, that I will admittedly still pass on the street when I’m, visiting my high school friends, checking out the ‘hometown’ even when I’m lame, and thirty-something (in that order.) That’s because it made me part of the person I am today. Is that possible? Can a house do that? I honestly think that it can.

~~I remember anxiously tracing the stucco on the back-porch walls when I was waiting for my prom date to pick me up. I remember laying in the back yard and sometimes, on sunny days, up on the roof looking down upon the quaint city sprawl.

I remember waking up to the creaky early-morning light in my bedroom. The way the rays of sunshine would work their way around the walls before creeping over the edge of my pillow and burrowing into my face.

I remember the tears shed, the laughs at the eight-person dining room table had with great friends, even in times of sorrow.

I remember the character of the rooms, each one holding different memories.

Kodak clippings of time.

I remember the smell of the laundry room; I’ve recreated the scent inside the cleaning supply closet of my apartment (Snuggle dryer sheets just for the record.)

I remember the long car rides to school, oftentimes running a few desperate minutes’ behind

But, that’s a recurring theme.

I remember the sound of the stairs,

The smell of coffee forever marking the kitchen~~

Like a real-life human being, I was sad that I didn’t get to say ‘goodbye’ to the house when my family moved. I had an emotional connection with those walls, they knew me intimately and I would not get to look around them one last time. Each room a different moment in time, a photo album of sorts…

I will miss you, 145 South Lake Ave

You were a great listener,

(A safe space for a sad girl.)

Thank you.