A little shell pink house,
sitting a top a hill,
with a gravel pathway leading to a bright green door,
matching nothing,
little odd ball.

Through the bright green door,
Your first step into the house you see a neat line of shoes,
Hinting to take off your own.
The old wooden floor creaks,
Moaning under the weight of a footstep,
No matter how lightly you place your foot.

In a room sits a loft bed with a comfy chair underneath,
A crib on the other side
With tall wooden bars,
Pictures plaster the walls,
Pictures of dragons and fairies,
Unicorns and mermaids,
All fragments of a child’s imagination.

Step outside,

A side yard with a quaint little garden,
flourishing under the tender sun,
rosebushes of all colors,
tender soft yellow, vibrant coral pink, pure, clean white,
And blood red.
The fragrance mixes with nearby herbs,
A most intoxicating smell.

The other side,
Shielded by the sun
Where nothing grows,
A small mound of dirt surrounded by a circle of stones,
Buried beneath a belovéd pet,
Wild flowers grow tall and large,
The only thing that can last in that melancholy place.

In the back yard you hear the squeals of childs’ laughter
Playing in the backyard,
The barking of a dog,
Desperately trying to grab attention,
A wooden fence,
A barrier of safety,

the house,
symbol of memories, both happy and sad,
old and new.