Rocking me back and forth, and smoothing the wispy curls that clung to my neck, my mother gently cooed me to sleep, humming the soft lullaby that always seamed to drift me away into a deep slumber. I remember the sweet smell of honeysuckles that would brush by and tickle my nose on warm summer afternoons, and I remember the ra-tit-ta-tat of the obnoxious woodpecker that always seamed to comfort me and left me with a feeling of ease and peace. I enjoy looking back into my past, digging up old memories as if I were ransacking an ancient trunk that had been stowed away for many years.
About six years ago my family decided to move to a bigger, more spacious house. Normally little kids jump for joy when they find out they are moving to a different house, however I wasn’t that kind of kid. For all my eight years of life my house had been the only thing I had known like the back of my hand. I had left my mark on that house whether it had been from the deep purple crayon permanently stained on my closet wall, to the small hot pink stain on the back porch left after an incident that involved too much nail polish and not enough nail. What was I going to do? My swing-set was already in the ground and my zip line had already been screwed into the two oaks resting in the back yard. We couldn’t just rip up the trees and strap them to the car, no, I was moving, and leaving all my precious memories behind.
I had never noticed how special memories really were to me; I guess I just assumed that being eight years old I couldn’t have that many in the first place. I mean I was a baby, couldn’t exactly remember that, I played with Barbies, those memories seamed like a blur, and now I wore a training bra. There truly wasn’t anything more than that. However, once my mom told me that we were moving, my past engulfed me like a tidal wave. I started imagining life without all the little things that made my home so special, for instance my bird bath. Even though old and decrepit, it could still withstand the pounding of rocks which took place almost every afternoon when my sister and I wanted to create our own special “perfume.” These little things made my house not only a house, but a good home.
Those memories still stay with me to this day; however I also have new ones that my family and I have made from my new house. Once we decided to put up our old zip-line my dad got the grand idea that he could hammer and talk…at the same time. After we got home from the emergency room I noticed something strange. My house had a very different aroma. It wasn’t bad, however it wasn’t normal. I realized that after all the grief and stress I put into moving nothing really seamed to change. My home still smelled like my mother’s sweet perfumed hair, and my father’s crisp hair jell. I could recognize the warm smell of fresh linen that had been taken out to be folded, and the foul smell of dirty tennis shoes that had been left by the front door. It didn’t have that brand-new-house smell to it, but a more comforting and pleasant scent. Those little things always seam to tie together to make a wonderful, more memorable memory.
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