I grew up in a house in the city. By the I mean NYC. My mom, brother and I lived in a house in a row of historical houses. They were so old that they are landmarked, and not in their original location. In a book is a photo of one of the houses being moved. Around it is a deserted dirt landscape.
When my brother and I were little we had the Dr. Seuss counting books. We used to walk around counting the doors, windows, doorknobs… At the time -when I was 12- the main floor was brick, and cold. We had a spacious living room, dining room and a kitchen that felt like a maze. It had large, metal cabinets always filled with snacks. Out back was a large garden that my mom and I spent days planting each year.
We used to do craft projects on the table, glitter scattered the floor. My mom taught us to waltz. We’d have stuffed animal flights since the walls of the floor above weren’t sealed. There was so much space our voices echoed.
Most of my childhood memories are there. My first kiss. Getting ready for elementary school graduation. Going to senior prom. Halloween parties where neighborhood parents and kids from our schools would come. Sleep over parties. Little kid relationships and my first serious ones.
About a year ago we sold the house. It was sad to see our stuff in boxes, and rooms filled with our memories left behind. I will never forget what it felt like to live in a house in this crazy city. A pause from the fast-moving pace outside our door.
Today’s assignment– Today, tell us about the home you lived in when you were twelve.