Door creaks open as I step onto the front porch step. The wind blowing through the house and filling with every memory. Sadness and joy fill my heart. It is bittersweet and in that moment I ask myself silently if I should go further.

I do. As I reach to allow myself into a place that used to be mine, my heart begins to break. With all the hope that filled that space and lined the walls with smiles, now torn down and breaking. One step in and I am not sure I can go on. Everything I touch is a feeling. Some good and some sad. Every step is into a memory of times since forgotten.

The smell of my mother’s hair, the sound of my fathers boots, the door bell being rung. Laughter coming loudly from the backyard. The squeak of the chains of the swing my father built. The presence of my younger self, growing and rebelling. I feel her strength and anger.

The further I go, the stronger sensations swallow me. Lost in the past. Wanting to stay here, where she is. I’ve lost her and have been looking unaware of it all.

The innocence of home. The comfort of home. The familiarity of my room, my space. Now reduced to ripped, ragged and torn remains. Much like the way I feel at this very moment. Wishing I could go back. Go back and do it all again.

If only home was actually there. But no, it’s not. The terrible realization that this shell was never my home at all. Just an idea of what I wanted it to be.