The other day, I drove by my child hood home. I spent sixteen years in this house and a lot of memories (good and bad) happened in that house.

 

It was so strange seeing it because my house was green and now it is bright white with a very pretty blue door. The old wire green fence has been replaced with this thick white “you can’t see in here” fence.

 

I was driving along that familiar road and when I saw all that whiteness I said out loud to no one, “is that my old house?”

 

My heart dropped to my stomach because, sure, the address is the same, but that wasn’t my old house.

 

It’s for sale.

 

A big chunk of me wants to buy the house. I started running my credit in my head and crunching numbers. Could I really go and buy my childhood home? What’s more, why do I even want it? I certainly don’t think I could live in it. But a house is a big purchase that you can’t really afford to not use.

 

I don’t want any one else to have my child hood home. Only I know where I buried the pennies under the lilac tree my mother loved. Only I can tell you how many pets are buried under the big tree in the backyard. I want to know if my “fossil tree” is still in the backyard as well.

 

I know what I wrote in my bedroom closet.

 

How ironic that not a few days ago I was recalling that house and now here it is looking for a new homeowner?

 

But I don’t think it can be me.

 

I want to look in the house again. My morbid curiosity wants to see how much has changed. I want to know what’s in my old bedroom and what the master bedroom looks like. What happened to my father’s den? Is the fireplace still working?

 

But as far as living in it…I don’t think I could ever do it.

 

That house was a big part of me. My dad died five minutes away from that house. Everyone in my family, but me of course, saw that house as the seventh layer of hell.

 

For me, that was when my family was all together. We weren’t always happy. We were mostly poor all the time. But still, we were all together.

 

I can’t chase ghosts in my old house. My parents are gone. They will never be in that house again. If I were to live in that house, I would probably walk the halls at night looking for them.

 

It is part of my history; it is not my future.

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