My insignificant existence had been filled as much as it could with the sharp and jagged twists and turns of life. Or so I thought. Being only a young seven year old girl I did not know what the future held, and frankly I had no desire to discover any more pain that felt as strong as knife wounds on display for the world in my heart; seemingly unwilling to heal. Eventually after months sometimes years the wounds would give in and begin to mend themselves. But I could never shake their nagging feeling of despair pulling from all sides. I knew they were there and I couldn’t help but feel that I needed to prepare my glass heart to be shattered once again.

Some moves had been easier than others, in some homes I had become hopelessly attached to the people I had grown to care for as much as my own family. Each relocation was hard for a variety of different reasons, but each home seemed to be an unchanging model that served as a reminder of what I used to have. So when I received the news from my reluctant parents that it was time once again for this ritual to occur at least once more time in my life, you can imagine the flesh wounds opening once more in my small broken body. The day after I received this news we took a trip to the lifeless pile of wood that would one day be my home. As I walked along the sea of gray foundation, small pools of tears filled my two eyes already deep with innocence. As the tears spilled down my face like water out of an overflowing cup onto my rosy cheeks baking in the Arizona sun, I felt a surge of peace so strong it felt as if a wave were crashing through my body, washing away every doubt I ever had concerning my new home.

The house was completed a few short months after my experience. Soon after moving into that home that had been nothing like my previous; I grew to love it more than anywhere I had grown up before. It’s beauty took the breath away from the girl with the broken heart. The happiness it generously gave healed her once wide spread wounds completely.