This ole house was home and comfort.

We spontaneously decided to take a trip. Well, not so much we, as I, he just happened to be in the car at the time.

I took the backway and drove for hours. He didn't ask where we were going. He just let me ramble about nothing and tried to pay attention to signs, so he could guide us home in case we got lost. I knew exactly where I was headed, but I didn't want him to know. He wouldn't have told me not to, but I was having hard time admitting it to myself.

My circuitous path turned the two hour drive into four, but eventually, we pulled onto Main Street. My eyes welled with tears and soon, I was breathing in deep, gut wrenching sobs. Muscle memory kicked in and I navigated the streets of the small town, driving by the park, turning left at the cemetery and past the large red brick house at the end of the block.

I took my foot off the gas and slowly rolled toward the house. It's white paneling shone in the dead of night. Did the people inside know that underneath the bright white, was old, dark wood? I wondered. Or that the shudders, now deep red, were once the same shade of brown, blending into the wood, disappearing from view.

I pulled to the front of the house and imagine the layout as it had been the last time I was inside. The china cabinet to the left, right next to the front door that rarely got used, the ancient air conditioner to the right. My favorite Monet print resided above the Victorian couch, next to the beautiful arch of the door way. I could see the door way, but the print and couch were long gone.

I imagined the way the itchy, orange carpet felt when I walked barefoot through the TV room, and the way the textured walls stung my skin with I backed into them on accident. I looked at the street-trying to find the spot stained with my blood where I fell trying to catch the neighborhood boys on my bike. I scanned the lawn, searching for the indentation that was surely left behind when my cousin and I spent all day making snow angels, collapsing in the snow and onto the frozen ground underneath. I stopped myself from charging into the backyard and examine every square inch of grass, until I found the holes left behind from the stakes used to support our camping tent.

"Where are we?" He finally asked.

"My grandparents house," I answered through tears, my throat growing tighter by the second.

"Aren't they..."

"Yes," I interjected before he could finish, "I miss them so much."

This post is in response to The Lightning and The Lightening Bug: Flicker of Inspiration #9- House