Home?

The house where I was born stands as a barely recalled memory. True, I spent the first thirteen years of my life there, but in my mind I can no longer navigate the hallways, mark every door, and map out the stairways and kitchen. The stories are still in existence, fresh as when they happen. Pain still comes when I hear about falling through the railing and down the stairs, comfort enters when I tell about the cozy little reading nook where I spent hours upon hours. But the specifics are gone. There is no color to the carpet, no style to the cabinets. Just my childhood, wisping through the trees out back, lounging in the basement, and gazing longingly through the window above the garage, left behind and lonely.