The smell of the ancient house reminded me of that from an antique store. The stale air had remained the same since the early century. The second floor was even worse. For half of my childhood it had been closed off, forbidden, sacred in our eyes. The yellow plastic desk we drew at was strategically placed in front of the door, as if it mattered, it was locked as well. Our parents said we couldn’t go up because it was too dark and there was no heating or electricity.

                Then when we were in middle school and the door became an open one, we found our own space. It was crowded, holding three generations of belongings, dark at night, and cold in the winter. In the summer the air was so thick you couldn’t breathe, and the windows were so small and low to the floor they offered no fresh air, but somehow the rain always found a way in. We made thin paths through the gathered memories and managed to find a room where we could set up our old toys from before school. Years passed in our noisy bliss when something terrible happened.

                You disappeared.

                The house was mine; in all its dusty forsaken glory. I took my sisters room when she moved out. It was nice to have a room with carpet and a solid ceiling where the bees couldn’t get in. Our toys were pushed in a corner, even as a teen I was waiting for the day you’d return and we’d destroy my doll house in an imaginary tornado, or record another episode of our own talk show. My nights were lonely, and I’d fall asleep watching the radio tower’s red light blink somewhere off in the distance, maybe where you were.

                When I left that place for what I thought would be forever, I brought my childhood toys home with me. I started to pack them in my closet; there was no time to set up a doll house when you’re coming of age, when I came across my old bag of beanie babies. It crinkled and groaned as I pushed it around to see the piles of colorful soft fabrics. I thought why not? I unzipped it and dipped my hand into what I spent my 90’s collecting; I was careful, as if handling my sisters newborn, these were my memories I was visiting. When a rush of feeling swept over me. I was there, in that awful, cramped, thick, old house. With the calico carpet, no heat, no visitors, no you…

                I embraced the old scent for a moment longer, as if my mother had just baked cookies. I sighed and a moment later, gasped. Quickly, I sealed the bag back up and looked at the beanies through the clear plastic. I’m sorry I thought as their beady eyes pierced through at me. But this is more important to me than anything. I realized something I had never before that moment: Those years I spent growing up in that old house, with my siblings, my toys, you, and even the years I spent alone; those were the best years of my life. The years I spent living in an area with no heat, electricity, and limited space.

                The years I spent with you, in that perfect house.