I took that old house for granted, but only because I was a kid and did not know how to appreciate anything. I look back on that museum of my childhood, and I realize that I am certain of two things; one, I am so envious of the family currently dwelling in my ancient paradise, and two, it really was a perfect childhood.

I wish not for anyone to have that house, to change it in any way, shape or form. But it changed the moment I grew up, and the moment I packed up my things and moved out. And now, all I’m left with are the memories, and all the house is left with are the scars of my dwelling-particularly the unprofessional drawings on the walls and stains on the carpet, and that window my sister and I broke on Moving  Day.

Everything that happened while I was living in that house is definitely a story to tell because my childhood was pretty crazy the way I remember it…Morning’s were slightly strange. I use to sit in the bathtub every morning, holding my hands out beneath the faucet, stuck in a trance by the warmth of the water. Then I’d take the soap and taste it. There was this one time I reached for the comb that rested at the top of the shelf that happened to be mounted on the bathroom wall directly above the toilet. This shelf was out of our reach, so the toilet was a convenient stepping stool. But my sister was desperate to use the toilet-as desperate as I was for the comb. So I stepped forward as she ran for the toilet, bladder full, and the next thing I knew, my foot was wedged ankle-deep into the flush-way of the toilet. Days were even weirder. My sisters and I would cry out to Shania Twain songs throughout the house. I once tattled on the cops for wearing their shoes in the house while tending to a 911-false alarm that my sister had initiated. My older sister and I shared a single bedroom in that house, with cotton candy-pink painted walls. My older sister killed our first pet fish with a spoon; the first criminal act I witnessed, and my first loss for that matter. We buried the fish in the backyard. Speaking of the backyard, that backyard bore the most significant aesthetic to my childhood; the colorful, handmade  swing set my dad built. The swings squeaked every time I went up, then came down. One time, my little sister wedged her head between the wall and the couch when she was 3, and she was stuck there for as long as it took for us to stop laughing. This house was also a paradise to many other children besides my sisters and I. My mom owned a day-home. There was this redheaded daycare kid named tori, who hugged the Washing Machine Repair Guy on the butt as he knelt down to inspect our bipolar-functioning washing machine and drier. After a day of chaos in that house, We each said “Goodnight, love you,” every night to our parents,  and we would not sleep until our parents replied with the entire verse, word-for-word.