It's not a house that stands in front of you. It's your father. With all his hope. Diluted ambition; one part dream, three parts family - future, responsibility, hard work, love and heartbreak.
In the empty kitchen windows you can see your mother and him, and everything in between. Tension. Shared memories; twisted and appearing in each mind slightly warped. Confusion. 'How did we let it get this bad?'
And you close your eyes. Through the sweat-blood-and-tear-imbued brick wall are two small children playing on a rainbow-checkered carpet. Mostly oblivious; mostly in their own world; mostly trouble free.
And you open your eyes to see the brick wall, but this time it looks different. And you notice the grass in the front garden is a bit longer; a bit more wild. You think how much you and that grass have in common.
So you turn, and as you're walking away from your good-days-house you notice all the pecularities you never did before. Like the amount of plastic bags on the pavements flanking a more-cracked-than-you-remember road. And as you reach the end of the familiar, much walked path, you think that maybe, just maybe, this isn't the good-days-house after all, rather, simply, the old-days-house instead.