A Home




I have stood on this earth 14 years. I had a family and land, everything I could ever want. I watched all the years go by. They were happy times filled with laughter and growth,
all my rooms were full and used. The kitchen constantly had something cooking, filling me up with delicious smells. The TVs added voices to quiet rooms since only three people and a little dog lived in them. The little dog would sit on the couch and stare out my windows for hours at a time. Sometimes I would stare with him and watch the world go round.

The two parents took care of me. The dad practically built me and constantly worked to keep me up to par. He took care of my lawns and planted beautiful flowers that would bloom all summer. The mom cleaned me and filled me with comfortable furniture and decorations for every season. During Christmas, my favorite holiday, the dad would climb my roof and string brilliant blue lights in nice little rows up all across my front, little nightlights so I could see to bring in the new year.

The little girl though, she became my favorite. I watched her grow up, I knew all her secrets and all her favorite things. I saw her likes and dislikes and watched her change throughout the years. I watched her leave for her first day of school and listened to it around the dinner table. She felt safe and secure in me, and I protected her, because I was her house.









After 14 years of the same family, I knew them by their footsteps and the way they would open my doors. I felt used to them and they felt used to me. One day the dad came home from work and just never went back. He started looking at the computer and sending out letters, my mailbox never seemed empty. Everytime he went to open it though, he never looked happy. After months of this, I began to feel worried and wished that things would just go back to normal. One day, the dad finally returned from the mailbox with a smile. I thought they would all share his joy, but the little girl seemed very sad. She would cry herself to sleep some nights and nothing I did seemed to help.

A little while later small cardboard boxes with orange writing all over them came in, and they just never left. The boxes filled me to my roof. Nothing seemed safe, they ate up
everything, sealing their lids with unforgiving finality. They sorted them through to my garage that couldn’t even hold the cars anymore. The little girl didn’t pack like the others though, only a few boxes left her room each day. I felt sad on the days she packed, and I am sure she did too.
An usually long month later, a huge, obnoxiously noisy truck came into my peaceful little yard and took away some of the boxes. It was good to see them go, but how dare this strange truck take my families things. I couldn’t believe that my family just sat letting this happen. After that, not a day went by without a little piece of my life being packed away.

I was always a good and clean house, but one day the mom and dad started cleaning me top to bottom and in places I didn’t even know I had. I sparkled, shined and felt just all around proud of myself. One Sunday, groups of strange people came and started looking at me, all through my closets, up and down the stairs, in the garage and through every room. I thought my family must be so proud of how clean they had made me that they decided to show me off to the world.

One of those little groups of people seemed exceptionally pleased with me; they came back again, and again, and again. The girl hid in her room each time they came and never smiled when they visited. A few days later, both families sat around the dining room table signing papers. Curious, I watched them, and discovered my family preparing to sign me away! They had cleaned me up just to let someone else’s life dirty me.

The boxes started to flow out in a continuous stream, even the girl finally packed up her life. Finally, nothing remained, everything sat lined up in neat little stacks spreading through the kitchen and into the garage. One cold winter day, another big truck showed up, this time the sound shook me through to the foundations. I knew that once it left nothing would be the same.

Groups of men that I didn’t know began flowing through the door and each left with their arms filled with my things. I felt ashamed that they could see me like this. Just a few months ago I appeared filled with life, but each time the door opened and the winter’s cold breath crept in, I felt my life flowing out and disappearing on the wind. After hours of this torture, I stood, a hollow empty shell. The men left, taking everything with them, just my little broken family stayed inside me. They stayed a few days, I treasured those days and waited for them each night. One night though, they just never came back. I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.

I sat empty and alone until once again the same noisy truck appeared in my driveway. Boxes and boxes spilled out and flowed back into the garage and through the kitchen. New men came and lifted furniture, bringing it back home, except I didn’t recognize any of these things. They put everything back in place, and the doors opened again to a new family.
The dad set to work, painting and making me whole again. The mom cooks supper every night, as delicious smells roll through me. A little dog sits again on my couch, watching the world roll by, as two little kids run and play through my rooms. They feel safe and secure in me, and I protect them, because I am their house.