A beautiful house though confusing nonetheless. Puke-green carpets that tickled the wall’s base. Off white paint that crawled to the low ceiling. I abhorred that ceiling, it reminded me of school. The kitchen: adorned in chicken decorations, large silverware, and plastic fruit. 

From there, the living room welcomed you with a cabinet of eyes that seemed to follow your every movement. A collection of owls that my grandma was generously fond of. Despite its strangeness, never did the room feel full of a malice-like air. 

Off the living room, through a door that slides from left to right, (Its layers of paint gave it a sticky feel and it squeaked in pain when you moved it too fast) my grandparents room; A large bed that took up most of the space, large curtains that were almost always draped in front of the windows, and even more owls scattered about. The room liked to beguile its guests, make one think it was a dark, cold, and scary room. But it wasn’t. It was the warmest of all of the rooms– the place my grandmother had brushed through my hair and I told her all about my life while I was away.  

A beautiful house though changes have been made. I hold such exalt for this home, the house with the Holmes family. The green carpets and low ceilings of the kitchen have been replaced, and the chickens and fruit have been retired. The cabinet of owls has been moved and the once large bedroom seems so small. What was once there, my childhood, my senses of memories–they are all gone. But in the end, so am I.