White Walls

It used to be white.

The yard was a little greener, and my dog was usually tied up to my tree.

My backyard was concrete and it would burn my feet in the summer time.

My living room had this ghastly green carpet that crept up the stairs and into the hallway.

There were pictures hanging up of my sister and I leading up to the second floor.

My room had light blue walls and white furniture with rose decals.

I used to sit on my knees when I ate dinner with my mom because the dinner table was too high up.

I remember watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune every night on the same black leather couch.

 

Now my house is brown.

The front yard is full of dirt and my tree is dying.

My backyard no longer has hot concrete, but cool stone.

My living room has dark wood tile and my stairs have no carpet.

The pictures have been taken down and the white walls of my house are too white.

My room is the same, except all my stuffed animals and toys have been crammed into a box that now resides in my garage.

I can reach for the salt and pepper on my dinner table without having to stand on my chair.

My black leather couch is gone.

 

And so is the house I spent my childhood in.

The frame is still there, the same white walls and grey tile.

All the pictures that graced the walls are in the same crowded garage.

But now I’m too big to hid behind the black leather couch when a movie gets scary.

I’m too old to play with my old toys.

My house is still there but it is no longer my home.

 

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