My Rickety Old Farmhouse

I take the old twisty road; the smell of pine fills my nose as I keep walking and walking to my destination. I see a little rabbit scurry off into the bushes, each step as soft and graceful as the last. I finally turn around a corner and there I see an old rickety structure with white paint peeling off the doorframe. It might not be much, but it’s my home. As I start walking up the gravel driveway, I can already smell the apple pie cooling in the kitchen. I turn the rusty old metal doorknob and as I open the door, I see the pie on the counter. Unguarded. I don’t have time to control myself and before I know it, mom walks in to see me hunched up against the pie. “For later, control yourself Emily”. “Sorry,” I reply. “I just can’t help myself”. I eye the whip, remembering my punishment last time I got into the pie. No, not yet I tell my growling stomach. As I walk up the stairs to my simple green room, I feel the creaking of the steps swaying with the weight of my body, like the rope ladder leading up to my treehouse. Mom says it’s just a matter of time before the whole house comes crashing down. I hope I’m moved out by then, because it would be too hard to witness the marked-up walls, with my best 5-year-old doodles crash with it. It would be too hard to lose this place. Sure, it has as many patches as grandpa’s old overalls, but it’s home. It’s a piece of me that I can never leave behind. It’s my heart.