A little about my house

I thought it was one of the worst things my parents had decided to do. I couldn't understand what they were thinking. Why would they want to sell our house? It was OURS. We belonged there. We were happy there. We loved there. We cried there. We had gathered many memories there. How could they want to leave?
My house was a small, red brick house with a small yard and small garden. The house sat at the end of a small street, a few small blocks away from the town's small Main Street. Of course, at the time I did not see any of the smallness. In my child's eye, the word small should have simply been substituted with perfect.
We lived in the middle of Nowhere, USA. I walked to school with my sister daily. I often walked to the post office or the Corner Grocery for my mom. I rode my bike all over the small streets of town. I'm not sure I would allow my children to do those things now, alone. But times were different then. There was nothing to fear. I always felt safe.
As my parents had searched for a new house there was always something not quite right: wrong neighborhood, wrong floor plan, wrong price. I started to hope it was fate to keep our tiny house. But then Mom and Dad found a plot of land near the closest city but still in our current school district. They deemed it perfect and went to work on house plans.
I didn't want to like this new house but the process of building fascinated me. I watched this new house rise up out of the dirt, a skeleton at first, transforming in front of my eyes into not just a house but a home. It felt like a betrayal to go to this new house and pick out colors for the walls of my new room.
I remember how sad I felt the day we left the little brick house. This house held ALL of the memories of my life. I remembered getting in trouble for coloring part of the house with my crayons. I remembered writing the name of a boy I liked on my bedroom wall in a spot where only I knew it was. I remembered pets, christmases, snowball fights, sitting on the porch while it rained...so many memories. How could I leave it all?
But I had no choice. Mom and Dad put us in the car and we drove away. I think I was the only one who looked back. I HAD to look back. I said goodbye to the little brick house silently as we drove down the street. A few tears ran down my cheeks. I wanted out of the car, to run back and stay in my safe place just a little longer.
We moved. It didn't feel right for a long time. Now,twenty years later, I love the house my parents built. It has become just as special as my first house. I always feel welcome and warm there, at home.
I understand my parents better too. They weren't trying to ruin my world by moving. They had dreams. My husband and I have dreams too. I realize what that is now. I look around my small home and I know I won't always live here. I long for something bigger, grander. I long for something new for me AND my children. So, I guess I will have to admit that sometimes our parents are right in what they do. It is odd to realize my parents were once just like me or that now I am just like them. I'm not sure which is which.
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