The Big Yellow House Page #2

• Essay
• Autobiographies

								

My house has seen it all, every stage of my development. Every evening I spent crying on the bathroom floor, every night I came home smelling of someone else beaming with life and excitement. It knows me when I'm alone, it knows me when I'm at my most social. It listens as I sing in the shower and talk in my sleep. It sees me as I discover and experiment, while I struggle through my passions and confront my hardships. I wish I could return the favor, but the secrets of my home remain a mystery. The years embedded in its hardwood floors, the stories behind each scratch, dent, or chip are its own secrets to keep.
One day soon, I will move for the first time in my life. I will paint over the brownish colored walls in my bedroom that I picked when I was twelve, and mark my contribution to the endless layering of their colorful history. For the first time, I will have a new address. I will live on a different street, with new neighbors and no history, and I'll know where my real home is. I will never forget my life in my beautiful home, and hopefully, neither will The Big Yellow House. 
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