It sits on a hill, off - white with bright green trim. Several trees, mere saplings stand tall, skinny and long, bare from Autumn's chill. Green grass grows short, well kept with a garden lining the left and wild bushes to the right. From the side stands a little girl, about six years old. She's smiling, olive shaped eyes closed as her popsicle melts in her hand. This is her home, the one place that she can call her own.

These walls bleed memories, drip down into reminiscent pools at her feet. There's Christmas, there's Easter, there's Halloween. There's birthdays, there's parties, there's days of endless happiness. Her traces are left along these walls - small hearts drawn on doors, hidden by the wood pattern. A small note sits high just under the door of the attic, "Don't forget me," it reads, "you will always be home." A reminder to the walls, to the place she called her own.

Now she stands on the driveway, no longer six years old. She'd left just two years prior, now seventeen and bold. This house is no longer home; no more green trimming accenting the off - white, only replaced with gray vinyl and white trim. Trees loom overhead, and the garden is no more. Hardly recognizable, this place is not her home.