A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME
South of our yard, and just past where the road turns from gravel to dirt, there's a driveway hidden in the bush. It's overgrown and pretty easy to miss if you're not looking for it. At the end of that lane is a large farmyard, with big metal grain bins and a big red barn. And one very old house.
My house.
Earlier, I wasn't feeling very well, with an ache in my head as well as in my heart. I've found that when I'm feeling unsure of myself, I like to look back, to see where I've come from. (Hence the love of genealogy. And old stuff.) Today was no different, and I had set off to find the house we (Mom, Dad, Logan, and I) had lived in when I was very small.
My heart sank as my car slowly parted the weeds. It wasn't the house I remembered.
Vandals found the abandoned house and destroyed it. The front door is gone. Beer cans and broken glass litter the floors, wallpaper was torn down, walls smashed in... Not a single window has a pane intact.
Feeling strangely violated, I carefully made my way through each room, looking for any evidence that we had once lived there. All that remain are the roses my mom hung to dry in the front closet and the crayon marks I left behind before we moved into town.
It was hard to take in. My oldest memories come from that house. It's funny how even the smallest parts of your history mean something to you.
P.S. Parents, can we please get a rainbow shower curtain again?
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