house on the hill

when i was little,

i lived on a hill.

a grassy green hill on the outskirts of Vermont,

there was a bright red slide,

and two ferrets that i'd watch aimlessly all day,

without a care in the world.

i don't remember much about such a place anymore,

i just know it's destroyed now,

and old and broken down,

all cluttered up,

if i were to take one soft step today,

it would all fall down to the ground.

sometimes i hear my family members at Sunday dinner talking about it,

and how they tried to fix it up.

i know if i were to drag my friends there,

they'd call it "scary,"

and "odd,"

but i would call it "pretty,"

and "cool."

the house on the hill

makes it seem mysterious or magical,

when i tell stories about the house i remember.

sometimes when i sit down with my mother she tells me stories i don't remember,

like how she saw a bear while swimming on a hot summer day,

and tried to distract me so i wouldn't run up and hug it,

"that's the type of little girl you were..."

she would say with a huff before going back to work,

i would admire her,

while she walked around,

back and forth,

wishing i was still that same little girl.

the big house on the hill is different from our small and run down apartment,

but the apartment has spiral stairs leading up,

and a chandelier with pretty designs,

so when you flip it on,

it makes the pale walls look magical.

like the house on the hill.

the house on the hill.