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Behind the old, wooden, worn-out house was a bosky moist forest. And inside this forest, were thousands of beautiful radiant yellow lilies, which glowed like a flashlight underneath the many trees. There were miles and miles of these gloss lilies, bunched up with moldy mushrooms and dandelions. These mushrooms would vary in color, from candy apple red to even rose pink. I remember running through this forest as oversized dandelions tickled my small ankles and legs. The trees were so tall and bundled up into groups, that I could never see the blues of the sky, but only the thin rays of sunlight piercing through the bony barks. In the summer, I heard the sharp noise of the cicadas. And during the winter, I heard the beautiful soothing sounds of the owls, and occasionally I would find one on the lengthy trees, spotting only its glowing eyes against the darkness of night. At night, I would sit still, completely motionless, only hearing the sounds of my breath, the crickets, and the gentle wind, rattling through the leaves of trees. It would often get so quite in this forest that I heard the flutters of the butterfly’s wings. And on lucky days, I was greeted with thousands of beautiful fireflies circling the forest, tickling my back and my shoulders as I sat absolutely still. The memories I have in this forest, float in my mind.
And then there was the old tiny house. The toast-colored paint was scratched and scraped away. The rusty roof faded from bright orange to gray. The concrete pathway was covered in weeds and shrubs. There were no glass windows, but only the window screen to keep the flies away and the pesky mosquitoes from eating our flesh. The walls were covered in bright green moss that accented the olive-colored doors, which often made a loud “Squeak!” noise every time I cracked it open. On the front porch, there was a porch rocker, the porch rocker that I spent hours a day on my great-grandfather’s bony lap listening to stories and tales, and gazing...