A small house with gray panels tucked into the woods at the end of a cul-de-sac. A crick runs through the backyard and trees tower over the clearing. The house is small, three bedrooms and one bathroom with a tiny living area and connected kitchen/dining room. The garage is not connected to the house. From the outside, and even the inside, it doesn't look like much. Just a rinky dink old cottage in the middle of the woods.
But it is more than that.
It is a testament to the people who built it and the ones who lived there. Memories of Christmases spent huddled around the fireplace telling embarrassing family stories, Thanksgivings so stuffed with food you feel like bursting, Fourth of Julys spent watching the brightly colored fireworks explode into a hundred rainbow shards. And then there are the little things: the scent of slightly burnt eggs in the dewy hours of the early morning, the sound of Grandpa's rough voice reading bedtime stories, the warm embrace of a loving grandmother, the hushed observing of deer roaming in the yard. Everything about it feels right, it feels like love.
Only a select few can sense the memories pouring from the walls. Fewer still choose to remember them. A small house with gray panels tucked into the woods at the end of a cul-de-sac. It's not much to look at, but it is everything to me.