Some people can think back to one house, or when they visit their parents they can go back to their childhood bedroom. For me, these things will never happen. See the house that built me was actually houses and even now they are in a new place again.
It’s funny to me though that the majority of my rememberable childhood memories came from one house. I still drive by it every now and then. I think back to the days of climbing my apple tree. I see the playset set up and a dead deer hanging from it. I remember the summers where it was so hot we filled huge buckets up with cold water and sat in them while we ate watermelon. There was the night I got a rusty nail stuck in my foot after momma told me not to walk across the porch barefoot. I remember when my hamsters got out and were missing for days. I finally found the momma hopping up the stairs. Then there was the Christmas eve my dad made me so mad I hid under the couch cushions and learned that Santa wasn’t real. I remember the day I was attacked by a dog and still can see my blood all over the rocks. I remember listening to the stacks of records mom and dad had, singing karaoke before bed. There was puzzle making on the porch, easter egg hunts inside, and still can recall the day I asked my momma to tell me the ABC’s in spanish.
The point is despite the fact I moved a gazillion places, I still have these memories. To be honest, I wish I could go back inside, run my fingers along the walls, and go swing on my apple tree.
If your house built you, what would it say? What do you remember?