memoir

Every day, for 11 years, I woke up in the same room, surrounded by the same white-washed furniture, within the same traditional cape-cod style house. A routine had developed. I woke up. I gazed around my room absorbing the warmth that filled it. I crawled out of my bed and tucked away the princess-like canopy that hung over it. I stepped onto the cold hardwood floors, awakening my body from the cloud-like covers I had spent the last 9 hours in. I walked into my bathroom and quickly positioned myself onto the warm, plush bath mats that devoured my feet. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair as I squinted from the light that poured through the uncovered window. I slipped on my outfit for the day, always simple, always comfortable. About to face the cold hardwood again as I prepared to venture into my kitchen, I put on soft socks that felt heavenly around my toes. I wandered into my kitchen to find my honey nut cheerios already poured, milk and everything. I ate quickly to the sound of my mom's iPod playing soft music. I placed the empty bowl into the sink, walked back into my room to grab my backpack, and we were off to school. That was a standard day for 11 years, until it all changed. Moving day.
To me, my house wasn't just a house. Surrounded by an enchanting garden and a flowing stream, it was a miniature castle. My mother and I spent hours in the garden, picking lemons and oranges off the trees, tending to the freshly grown flowers, and admiring the endless sunshine. We hosted parties, ranging from birthday to holiday. My family often gathered in the living room, and watched movies ranging from comedy to suspense. Over the years, the walls of our home became enriched with laughter, happiness, and excitement.
But the economy was in a fast decline, and my parents knew they didn't want to stay in our house forever. Hoping for the best, expecting the worse, my parents broke the news to me and my older sister that our childhood house would not be our lifelong house. Immediately I was excited. However, my sister, a few years older, knew what moving meant. She knew that my parents wanted to cut back on our lavish lifestyle, and she was content with that. But she wasn't content with the thought that no more memories would be made within the walls of our home. She wasn't content with the thought that she might not even see our home again. She wasn't content with the thought that my parents were so accepting of the change that lay ahead of us.
As the days went on, the amount of boxes grew. There were times when I'd sit in my quaint little room and all of a sudden a group of unfamiliar faces would peer into it. They analyzed the size, the lighting, the furniture layout. This was my private space that was built especially for me, and now it was invaded by strangers that wanted to purchase it. I didn't particularly like this idea, but I soon became used to it. The concept of moving didn't seem realistic to me until we abruptly received an offer. My parents talked it through and couldn't pass up the opportunity. They accepted the offer.
The day finally came. Boxes filled every inch of my house. I woke up to the sound of heavy footsteps and loud voices. I heard the dragging of boxes against the hardwood floors. I noticed the rapid opening and closing of doors. As I opened my eyes for the last time, my quaint little room was no longer my own. There was no warmth left to admire. There was no familiar white-washed furniture surrounding me. It had all been wiped clean, leaving a stark, empty home with blank walls and blank memories. It was then when I realized that the beautiful, enchanting house my parents built and that I grew up in, wasn't my house anymore.