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In this home,

I could see young children, mugs of marshmallow hot chocolate,

in front of the crackling fire.

Only minutes before opening presents that waited underneath the tree

of peppermint aroma.

When July brings in warm evenings,

and the kids are all running about,

the fireflies well cupped in each small hand

is all I could see.

Despite the messy, cold garage that hid items as much as it stored them,

and the dark, isolated laundry room neglected of its damp clothes,

and the scary windows that'd expose eery reflections at night.

✦✧✦✧

Within this home was a lively family.

Only a group of familiar people

Though, no matter how many thorns that pricked the skin,

no matter how many moments of unforgettable pain

after pain after pain—

they loved each other.

✦✧✦✧

This little girl runs past the long grass that itched her knees.

The area in which surpassed the fence to her home.

It didn't matter how far she'd run away because that small, white wooden home

was always still there.

This house that has now bore a slight darkness to it

had vines where imaginary monkeys swung around the corners.

The rusted and creaky swingset was now a home to the spiders and ants and an abundance of puddles.

The driveway,

once a rainbow of chalk mark doodles,

stained with nothing more than a black tire streak.

But most importantly,

the same white wooden home that fostered all these memories

was still there in that same spot.

As if it had waited for that little girl all these years.