It was white and blue when we bought it.
A large oak tree out front.
A pecan out back.
A jungle of weeds on the side by the fence.
The metal wire gate for the backyard.
A tall rusty black box meant for barbecue
leaned against the back porch.
A green metal swing-set with faded yellow seats.
The first house I remember.
Grandpa lived with us.
We made up stories on that back porch.
We painted it all.
The house became green with red windows and porches.
The garden replaced the overgrown weeds.
A peach tree planted for me,
an orange for my sister,
a tangerine for my brother.
I held the nails as dad put up the wooden fence.
We updated every room in that house.
The kitchen, the dining room, the kid’s bathroom, the master bathroom.
I held tools, I painted,
I kept the younger kids entertained.
Added a trampoline.
Got our first dog.
Gave her puppies away.
She ran away.
Brought in our first three rabbits.
Built the first aquaponics.
Made my first holy communion in that house.
My three brothers were born in that house.
Met my best friend in that house.
Started making up stories in that house.
Lived in that house longer than any other.
No other house experienced that much change
while we lived in it.
No other house has been the same.
I passed by that house the other day.
It’s been painted since we were last there. It’s white and blue again.