Our Old House

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This house may be old but it’s the homiest of any, I walk in to see the kitchen tiles who’s existence surpases mine by many.
I stroke the soft, black fur of an animal who’s life we gave, and hear the beep of an alarm clock that we can never find but know is saved.
I know this house so well I can walk through it without looking, right into the kitchen where my grandma’s making her sweet cheese cake she’s become so famous for cooking.
When I leave I can smell the fabric softner leaking through the cracks, and the scent makes me happy because it reminds me of my past, my roots, and my tracks.
If the walls could talk they wouldn’t they’d scream. The thought of losing this house to another family is a nightmare not just a bad dream





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