If you ask me for my address I will just stare at you blankly until you rephrase the question. Because you see, I have moved too many times to remember it. Although it may also be that I have just moved too many times to care. It’s like my mum always said when I was little. “I know you would be able to climb a mountain the moment you decide it’s worth it,” but in this case it is not worth it because every house we move into wasn’t right until the people in it were. 

Now the people are just right and the house is too. It may be small for mum and all four of my siblings but it’s cozy, and it’s the most beautiful house I have ever seen. The moment you lay eyes on it, you see the toys scattered in the yard and the paths in the grass from kids running in circles. The bikes are layed on top of the plastic soccer goals. You can see the love on the scratches and broken pieces of the red brick walls. You feel all the fun times and scraped elbows of rivets on the makeshift skateboard swing hanging on a low branch of the only tree in the front yard, but best of all is the door. The magnificent bright pink door with a large square archway inviting everyone inside. Like it’s encouraging people to set aside their differences and sit on the soft sofa to watch a documentary on some weird philosophical theory while eating phalafel and lay on my mum's lap as if you were her own child. So don’t ask me my address, ask what it feels like when you get there and you will know exactly where to go.