Size Matters

The home I lived in when I was twelve?

It was comfortable, if I were to describe it in one word; it was just small enough for the four of us that lived there, and still big enough for the six extra visitors we’d get everyday. It wasn’t cramped, though it did get a little tight when you had six children screaming and running after a ball.

It was a terrace, with the same, white walls as both its neighbours. It had too many plants for its own good, though I certainly did find butterflies of many colours more than once. We had a dog, too.

He was old when I was young, and it wasn’t too long before he left us for a better place, but he was a delight to have. He’d never fail to bark at any of the others when they visited. The same way he’d never fail to quieten down when either my mother or myself went to see to him when my cousins got scared.

When I pass it by now, it’s dusty. It’s still unoccupied, just as we left it, and though it looks nothing like it used to.

It brings back the memories of butterflies and company.

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