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The House On Fallsbrae

I haven’t always lived on Fallsbrae. I have lived places before, but just enough to count on fingers. It was a while ago that I ever felt like the place I was situated at was ever to be considered a home, because the definition to me is a place of comfort. A home was a place where the family thrived on each other’s contentment in the shelter from the world, a home that I need to let go of in the past.

The first house I ever lived in was on Vista road. It was an attractive house, tucked in behind some elevated trees. It was a lonely house, standing by itself with no others to comfort it in its silence. Trees swayed in the front yard to the music of the wind, not having a place to root their branches at. The house itself was large, enough to fit three children and two adults perfectly. The windows were great and hospitable, as if to say to the sun, let your rays shine upon this place and enjoy the lack of chaos while we can. The yard was wide and open, a half acre of trees laden with fruit. It was a yard any child would dream of having, filled with everything that a young mind could possibly imagine. The rooms were small, yet a size still manageable to function in. The kitchen wide with space, open to a mind to feel free to cook in. In other words, this house was perfect.

After my father and mother divorced, my dad needed a new place to call home. So, he rented a house in a golfing area. The house was small and cramped, my sister and I shared a room, but I was too small to remember every detail of that tiny house.

My step-mom and two step sisters came afterwards, and we moved into a new house on Rio Valle in Bonsall. I was still living in my Vista home, switching back and forth on the weekends and weekdays.

That house was different. In this house, there were four rooms, and two bathrooms. My step sister and I shared one room, and my other step sister shared a room with my sister, my dad and step mom their own room, and my brother, had his very own.

I didn’t mind it all that much. Except for the fact that arguing over the shower would usually end up in a fist fight of words. After my mom died, it became my permanent home, and I decided that sharing a room with my sister would be best.

I packed my things, I left my best friends behind, and every memory I ever cherished with them at that house. The vista house filled with trees, crawling with begonias, overflowing with joy and sadness, would be sold. To be long forgotten in the memories of others. I left the house; I took everything I ever wanted with me, except I left my joy behind.

After that, my dad decided that this house could not be possible for all of us to be living in permanently, so we decided to move to Fallsbrae. This house, placed on the top of a hill, is not home, and it will never be for me.

A fountain runs in the front, with no reason, no purpose, just another hassle in the eyes of others, an unwanted decoration. Circling around it is grass that I planted flowers in, to make things a little more “cheery”. Behind this all lies the structure of the house, tall and beautiful, wide and spacious with enough rooms and bathrooms for everyone. This house, as nice as it is, has nothing to show for all it’s grace. There are no memories within its stone, there is no laughter echoing though the walls, there is no joy to be bellowed throughout the world.

It’s okay though, I was not expecting to have a home like the one I had for my whole life. This house, with all its imperfections will always be defined as my home, although it will never feel like that to me. I will take what I have, and I will try my best to make them the things I want. Not everything in my life can be given to me, I have to try and make things worth it. So I stand here today, on this house on Fallsbrae and think to myself, No, I didn’t always live on Fallsbrae.