I have lived in the same place since I was 1. That’s 23 years in case you were wondering.
Except for those two and a half years I lived in Kansas. Ironically, when I lived in Kansas I moved about four times.
I have now decided I hate moving.
I like stability.
I like coming home and knowing where everything is.
I like my room. Even if it is still painted in the colours the 16 year old version of me painted.
My house has not really changed since I was one.
The colors of course have changed. The furniture, the technology, the accessories.
But my house is my home. And it has never changed.
There is a comfort in it. In this place that belongs to me. Or perhaps I belong to it.
This is where I was raised. This is where I played in the backyard, jumped on the trampoline, ran through the sprinklers.
This is where I had my birthday parties and celebrated Christmas.
This is where I laughed and cried.
This is where the magic happened.
My sister tells me she would not be sad if my parents sold the house. That a house is just a house.
I would be sad. This house is a source of most of my memories.
Someday, perhaps soon, I will leave this place. I will leave to carve out my own place in this world, to create my own memories in my own home.
But until then, this house is a home.