A quaint house rests at the mouth of a cul-de-sac exactly where the straight road meets the bend. The wine-colored leaves of a warped tree sway in the breeze, some wilting off of the branches and falling slowly onto a gentle bed of lavender below. Muddy footprints, a child’s size, had stamped the fork of the tree. Indentations in the dewy grass below began a trail of brown towards the cherry door. Eleven years ago, that same wooden door had greeted a trio of sisters, and eight years later, a baby boy, welcoming them all into the loving arms of the house. They were inspired by the promise of a better home where they could live, where they could learn, and where they could love.

Impermanence seemed unfeasible. But that was merely a hopeful illusion.

So there I now stood, in the middle of a dying lawn. I squinted through the picture window, catching glimpses of unfamiliar figures sweeping by, blocking my view of within. They stared at me in disbelief and c***ed their heads in confusion. A small child pointed at me, his innocent, worried eyes piercing through me and interrogating me, but I was unable to defend myself, unable to speak.

I was an unknown visitor, an unwanted visitor; a trespasser on my own property.

Or so it used to be.

I merely hoped to remember, to bring closure to the place where I was reared, to bid my farewells to the house that I loved so much, that was too-quickly stolen from my heart.

Stolen by them. A new family who wanted nothing more than to erase the past and create their new future, to obliterate every trace of the “other family,” the previous inhabitants, my family. A family that did not think twice before they stomped down my polished hallways, slept in my bedroom, neglected my vibrant grass and cut my grand trees and ruined my house.

How could anyone do such a thing? How could anyone be so blind to what made the house so beautiful, so full of love and life?

I began to cry. I shed tears on behalf of the house I loved so dearly, the house that had once seemed to love me in return.
I kneeled at the base of the tree, my knees sinking deeper into the mud, and saw their faces soften through the blur of my tears. I reached for an uneven stone that still leaned against the trunk, the only remnant of the past, leftover from the days when different children had slept in the beds and leapt from the trees, when my family called this place home. It was etched with a familiar verse from a poem, words I had seen all my life, painted onto archways and plastered on signs throughout the house, engrained into my mind, but I neglected to ever entertain their importance.

But at that very moment, it occurred to me for the first time what the words had truly meant.

“Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be,” I read aloud, my eyes glistening with tears as I remembered how the words had guided me through the halls when I was afraid of my own footsteps, how the words had surrounded me in an embrace when I felt lonely and dejected, how the words had taught me that even when evil lurked in the night, the sun would always rise to wash it all away in the morning.

I felt the ridges of the words in the stone, as vital energy rushed into my fingertips, and oozed from every pore. I wiped the drying stream of tears from my flushed cheeks as I rose, slowly turned towards the house, and smiled fondly.

“Thank you,” I whispered as I waved goodbye to the unfamiliar creatures in the window, “treat them well.” And as I began my journey towards my new house with a different light and understanding, I could have sworn a voice answered, “I will.”