As a child my grandparent’s house was boring, dark, and well…old. As we went into the house I couldn’t help but feel a sense of despair for a weekend of pure boringness. The old house creaked, was dimly lit, and not at all stimulating for my younger self. I would always sit on the window bench in the kitchen and wait for my grandma to finish her cooking. Behind me, in the backyard, was the old tree that was limp and would eventually be cut down, the 2 acre plot of land that used to be fertile and harvested once a year. Behind me, the long shack that had been rebuilt after a fire and now held wood and rusted tractors. The old barn where all the animals used to kept. The old barn where I would, in a few years, find my dad’s old motorbike and pogo stick. Where I would learn to explore and have adventures before it became too unstable to be safe to play in. Behind me, things still unimaginable.